Shifting of the Scales
by Fernstrike
Summary: Thrust unceremoniously into Middle Earth with no viable way home, Sarah is swept up in the War of the Ring despite protests from the Fellowship. Little does she know how truly horrific the War is up close and how attached she will become to her companions. With the Breaking of the Fellowship impending, what can she do except trust in the courage of all and the steel of her sword?
1. Lost Without Cause

**Hiya! :)**

This is my first LOTR fic and the first fic I am actually going to finish. It's essentially a test drive, kind of getting used to writing characters without fancy inner monologue before I tackle a more canon LOTR fic. This is a 3-part fic, following more of the books with some lines from the movies snuck in. This is the book section of FF after all!

So yes, this is a self-insert won by popularity on my Facebook over an inner monologue idea. I'll say right here and now that I am giving no liberties to timing, age, personalities, abilities, circumstances, physical limitations, freakish Valar prophecies and parents that conveniently die of grief (or never existed in the first place).

That being said, it will probably get a bit angsty, but I hope you are willing to hang in there! :)

**I do not own anything in this fic except the original material I added to it, and my own...uh...presence in Middle Earth?**

Without further ado - Chapter 1 of Shifting the Scales!

* * *

I look out the window. Then back at my book. Then out the window.

Singapore has surprisingly fantastic skies sometimes, despite the environment, and today is no exception. A steely bank of light grey stretches over all the clear sky I can see, leaving no gaps in the clouds for any sun to get through. And yet today feels different.

There's a buzz in the air.

Something compells me to get up and get outside, so I do.

I abandon my bowl of crisps on the coffee table and head upstairs with my copy of the Silmarillion clutched tightly in my hand. I know where I'm going today.

I step into my room and pick up my backpack, only to find it already filled with everything i usually carry around. My drawing book, my Gryffindor jumper, my phone and my iPod, which I always carry around just for the hell of it. I don't bother taking out the random crushed granola bars and Kit-Kats, or the funky little letter opener I wedged into the shoulder padding. Looking at he book in my hand, I toss it in too for good measure.

I pull on socks that I can tuck over my joggebukser - the place I'm headed to has annoying grass and crickets that pull and itch at your legs, and I'd like to avoid that.

I smile as I head downstairs and tug on my comfy boots that I got a Esprit. This feels like an adventure.

"Hey Mum!" I call out, knowing she's preparing dinner in the kitchen. "I'm heading out to the Paddock for a bit!"

"Sure," she says, stepping out. "Be back before 7?"

"Yep, or if it rains," I say, pecking her on the cheek. "See you soon."

I step out the door, to be greeted by a block of warm, exceptionally still air.

Talk about the calm before the storm.

It feels as though I am cutting through the atmosphere as I walk down the road beside my block, and loop back on the other side of the estate's fence.

The Paddock isn't really a paddock - it's a small, unclaimed field, bordered on all sides by various estates and condominiums. It's a little spot of sanctuary in this largely industrialized city. That's why I want to come here today. If today feels magical, I want to be somewhere that feels magical - or at least, less immersed in the material world.

I step deftly through the long grass, my feet following the path I know so well through the sparse trees covering the area.

In the distance I hear thunder.

There's a beautiful open area of grass interspersed with long stalks touched at the ends with small purple flowers. It is here that I feel the first drops of rain.

I pull my hoodie out of my bag and tug it over my head, pulling the hood up as the rain starts to get heavier.

I pass the largest, most central tree; an old beauty mostly covered now in vines and aerial roots, with branches that hang softly over the fence and high, s leaves that sound of birds and rustle gently in the wind as it starts to pick up.

Daring to risk being out a bit longer - knowing full well it is monsoon season - I wander around a bit longer, turning my head to the heavens and catching raindrops in my mouth as they fall like hard pellets on my skin.

I spin round as I walk, pretending I'm another world, a better world, with clean sweet smelling rain and clouds with silver linings. I stop for a moment and cringe, wondering if perhaps I've been seen, before I remember that I'm in the middle of a tropical shower in a random field. Who in their right min would be there to watch?

I pass into the second, larger patch of grass, where shallow hollows - which I used to call snakepits - begin to fill with small puddles.

That's when the storm starts.

It's not a tropical shower - this is real monsoon weather. These storms are damn dangerous at times.  
The rain picks up with harh ferocity and the wind drives it horizontally into my face. I cower as lightning pricks the sky and thuder rolls out a defeaning bo above me. I curse inwardly as I see water gushing around the drain that runs on the far side of the Paddock. The sound is defeaning.

I decide now would be a logical time to head back, so I head round the great tree, passing the far drain which gushes in rapids from the driving precipitation. I look to the larger canal, noticing water starting to trickle from the edges. It concerns me. I am about to check the other drain before going when I stop dead - and it dawns on on me in a moment of horror that the drain on the far side is blocked by debris.

I barely have time to start running before I hear the roar of rushing water and the torrent bursts the banks of both shallow canals.

The world seems to spin. Water rushes round my ankles as I race toward the central tree - the Mother Tree, as I remembered calling it once - and I shove through lacy vines and shredded gossamer. I don't know what my original intent was - perhaps to climb the tree and wait out the storm - but in the end I'm caught in a corrall of aerial roots and lashing rain as water pools round my boots.

I let out an involuntary cry as rain slips down my jacket and through my pants and rises up until it's touching the tops of my boots. The tree above me stands tall and steady as lightning again claws the sky in two, and I realize climbing a tree may not be the best idea.

And then the branches fall.

They are few, but they are large and heavy, and within moments by entrance is barricaded. I look at the sight in horror as the realization dawns. I am trapped.

So I do what any trapped city person in a raging storm and no means of vocal communication does. I take out my cell-phone. But much to my chagrin, it has no service.

So I stand miserably in the hollow. I pull my hood over my face and slump into the strong roots, wrapping my arms around myself; maybe when the storm abates I can climb my way out. The thought feels desperate, like I'm trying to reassure myself. A rushing sensation fills my head and my eyes start to feel warm, and I blink back what I know are tears.

I stand wet and cold and fearful for what feels like hours. Storms like these don't stop quickly. Yet just as the thought crosses my mind, the wind begins to let up, the rain to fall less powerfully, and next thing I know, what little sky I can see above me clears. The bruising storm clouds are replaced by clusters of fluffy white cirrus. Rich, golden light spills in from the late afternoon and illuminates the hollow, and a cool, light breeze drifts through sweet smelling air, air that smells wild and clean and primal. Mountain air.

Looking down at the roots of the tree, I see the water is all but gone. And with a pang of confusion I realize the leaves are different.

My woody barricade is still there, but I see something beyond it. Something that doesn't look a bloody thing like Singapore.

I kick and push at the branches, snapping wood and showering leaves as they start to give way. In the end, the branches give under my weight and a rush of light reaches my eyes as I tumble out of the hollow.

The first thing I see is the ground. Pine needles litter it, scattered with more red and gold leaves. All around the smell of pine and glacial air fills my nostrils. A chill permeates the place with the descending temperature of a dying year.

A forest. I'm in a pine forest in autumn.

"I'm actually in a pine forest," I whisper. Saying the words out loud make them feel more real.

The fear starts to kick in. I'm no longer in Singapore – definitely not; Singapore doesn't have pine forests, and there's no way in hell it would ever smell as clean as this place does. I don't know where I am, I can't see anyone to ask for help, and worst of all I don't even know how I got here. My body is wracked by panicked shudders and I move my head too fast. The world spins and my stomach churns and I think I'm going to be sick from shock.  
I push myself to my hands, turning my pounding head around to see trees bordering me on all sides. Behind me, a range of peaks peers over the tops of the pines.

By the stars, where am I?

I try to remember what you do when you're lost; but this case feels a bit too much of an extreme to simply be classed as 'lost'. No, I can't rely on meagre survival skills now. I don't want to stay in this place, waiting for something to come get me, whether that something be well-intentioned or ill. Some thought niggles in the back of my head, something that tells me there probably won't be any aeroplanes or helicopters flying over any time soon. That's the deciding factor. I need to find civilisation.

No wait, priorities. I need water – water and food. I have Kit-kats and a granola bar but that's not going to last long, and it's not going to supply me with much either. Looking up at the sun, it's past noon, and setting straight ahead. _I dropped out of the tree facing West. West is as good a direction as any. Maybe I'll find a river. Or hit the sea. Where there's water there's people. _So, drawing my feeble letter opener from my backpack, I start to head West.

The Sun doesn't sink slowly, but I don't move slowly either. Bit by bit, the crisp air and strong sunlight dry my clothes and my hair, leaving only damp patches where my back is covered by my bag.

I try to keep as straight a path as I can, heading steadily downhill in the direction of the dying rays. Leaves and needles slip under my feet as I make my way through the wood, and slowly but surely, the pines begin to thin, replaced by different kind of trees I can't identify. Birch maybe, and some oaks – I am not sure; one doesn't learn that much about trees by being a city girl. As the sun dips lower, I pull out one of the Kit-Kats from my bag, nibbling at it slowly as I trudge on through the wood.

By now, my thirst is beginning to consume me. I haven't stumbled across a stream all day; not a splodge of mud to indicate water. Nothing. So when I hear the rumble of distant thunder I allow myself cause to feel relief.

Dusk seeps in to the forest. The chill grows deeper and I wrap my arms tighter around my body, grateful for the jumper I'm wearing. That instinctive, childish fear of the dark infects my thinking at first, making me spin round at every sound; but soon, I find myself feeling peaceful in the place, the further West I go.

Eventually, with the sky above the tree line fading from purple to navy, I look around for a tree to spend the night, not wanting to sleep on the ground, where I might as well be holding up a neon sign saying "HEY PREDATORS, COME EAT ME PLEASE".

The first climbable tree I find unfortunately has no suitable fork for me to rest in. I don't have any rope to strap myself in, so I can't risk anything that requires me to balance while I sleep; because that's not going to happen.

I find luck on the third tree, just as the promised rain from before begins to fall lightly, misting the air. It's strong old thing that has numerous branches, low and high, with a wonderful little nook near the trunk. I spread my legs across the branch, leaning in to the trunk and resting my head on the leafy bough above me. It's precarious, but it will have to work. I close my eyes, determined to get rest this night, but I can't sleep for all the thoughts that buzz through my brain.

As the water falls more heavily, I tilt my head to the heavens and swallow as much water as I see fit. I have no waterproof means of storage bar a little Ziplock bag that houses my granola bar, but it's better than anything else I have, so I fill it three quarters of the way and seal it as securely as I can.

Anxiety gnaws at me. I pull my hood up as the rain pelts down, and curl up miserably with another small bit of Kit-Kat, thinking about home.

Mum will be worried out of her mind, thinking I've been washed away by the storm. My grandfather will be even more worried, as frail and old as he is. I think of my cosy home, where I am safe, where there is good food and warm drinks, and two cats to greet me whenever I come home, and to sleep on my legs whenever I go to bed. I think of my sister in Norway, oblivious to what has happened. I think about how excited I was to go to Amsterdam this December and see the windmills and eat dinner on the canal.

Silently, I let the tears fall, hidden by the rain, and sleep takes me gently.

* * *

I wake before dawn.

My stomach growls and my lips are dry, and my back hurts. I'm freezing. The wind is blowing strongly, and the bare branches offer little protection against it. I squint through the haze of sleep to look cautiously around me, not moving while I'm still so sedated and stiff. Through the light of a half-moon I make out a delicate sheen that laces the old bark and the sparse leaves. The rain must've stopped not too long ago.

I don't want to move before dawn. I don't want to go anywhere before it's light again. So I uncurl my stiff fingers from around my letter opener and shove it into my bag pocket, then take the Ziplock from my lap with numb hands and take a few small sips of water. When I zip it up again and set it down my head pounds. I curl deeper into myself, shoving my hands under my armpits for warmth, and doze again.

When I wake fully, I can't see the sun through the overcast weather, but it feels like it must be two hours since dawn. My head pounds with hunger and dehydration and misery and cold. Seeing as I'm wide awake, I decide to continue on what may end up being a futile journey for me.

My cramped muscles scream with the effort to move as I slowly uncurl myself and stretch out. I break a corner off the granola bar and chew it slowly, sparingly. As they say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. After another hasty few sips of what meagre water I have left, I shove everything unceremoniously into my backpack, and begin to climb my way down.

Climb being a relative word here.

My head reels and I slip on the branches a few feet from the ground and crash in a dejected heap on the soft forest floor, taking the weight on my left ankle as my face slams into the leaves.

The rude awakening at its finest.

I move my hands gingerly in front of me, pushing myself up onto my elbows and brushing dirt and leaf stalks from my sore face, which now has a wonderfully grazed cheek.  
My muscles shriek refusal when I try to get to my knees, and I roll painfully onto my back, trying push myself up on my elbows again, and suddenly find myself looking up into two male faces.

A moment passes.

Then I scream.

My hands fly in front of my face in a panicked defence. Weaponless, I cower on the ground, unable to reach my pitiful letter opener in my bag. Not that I would use it anyway. Not that I would dare. Not when I see the knives at their belts and the bows on their backs.

The two men, however, despite how primal they look, peer down at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern, and when I look at them I am suddenly captivated.

They are fair of countenance, one with long blonde hair and the other dark brown, that frames chiselled, almost androgynous faces, set with soulful grey eyes. They are tall, very tall, dressed in rich garments of some unknown material, decorated with unknown insignias. My eyes travel to their faces again, and I see pointed ears poking out from under raven locks.

I double-take. Pointed ears?

Oh God. _Oh my God._

I let out a shout and shrink into myself. Maybe if I keep them from my sight I can pretend they aren't real. But when I look up again, they are still there. They are there as clear as day.

One of them – the one whose chestnut hair is pulled in a braid behind his back – bends down in front of me and raises his hands in the universal gesture of peace. _I mean you no harm._ Then he begins to speak.

His voice is beautiful, a melodious, soothing sound of wind through the branches and water bubbling gently over smooth river stones. It makes me feel safer and quells the panic, except for the one little problem.

I can't understand I word he's saying.

The language is surreal and delicate, and sounds oddly familiar. My face must show up blank because he stops talking and his eyebrows slide into a frown. Then the pieces click into place. _Of course. _Pointed ears, questionable masculinity, strange-but-beautiful language…

Elves. I'm looking at Elves. _Elves. What the actual hell. _

My heart catches in my throat as the realisation dawns on me, and I feel a mixture of awe, fear, and unadulterated fangirling. Am I where I think I am? Because if I am, I'm going to scream again. I may finally have answers but I'm less than willing to believe them.

I think.

I look back up and the Elf's expression is replaced by concern again.

I rack my slow brain for as much Elvish as I know, trying to recall their tongue, but come up null. "Do you speak English?" I ask hopefully. "Uh…Westron?"

I can tell by their apologetic faces that they probably don't, and my stomach sinks. "Um…_Sindarin_?" I say, testing the word on my tongue. It's the only dialect I remember a little of.

The Elf's face lights up in recognition and I feel a little prick of hope despite the fact that I'm freaking out inside my head because I'm in Middle-effing-earth, of all places to be.

Dear God I feel like a Mary Sue.

The Elf nods and I pluck up the courage to try again. I point to myself. "_Im…Im Sarah_."

What else do I say?

I gesture at him and add in inflection of question to my voice. "_Ce…ce edhel_?"

"_Mae," _He nods and says something in Elvish to his companion, and the other Elf speeds off into the woods.

"_Im Fenduíl_," he says slowly, touching a hand to his chest, sensing my simplistic understanding of the strange tongue. "_Ce Rohir?_" he asks.

Rohirric? Maybe it's the sun-browned skin. I rack my brain for an answer. _What's the Elvish word for 'no'?_

I settle for shaking my head.

"Am…am I in _Imladris? _Uh… _hîr Elrond_?" I ask, using a term he would recognise, and gesture around the area. For a moment he looks confused, but then I see his eyes visibly clear and he nods. When he speaks, I can't understand a word he says, and it must show, because he lets out a sigh and stands, holding a hand out.

"_Imladris," _he says, moving his head in the direction his companion had just run off in.

I nod, and take his hand, standing. I know for sure Lord Elrond can speak the Common Tongue. Maybe he can tell me what is going on.

The moment I stand up, however, my foot gives out from under me and I hiss in pain as I realise my ankle is twisted. Fenduíl catches me round the shoulders to steady me and lets me walk in front of him. He puts a hand on either shoulder to keep me upright, seeing as he's unable to sling an arm under my own because of the considerable height difference. "_Hannon le," _I murmur gratefully, and he nods.

Before long we reach a clearing, and I see his friend standing with a small host of other Elves, some on foot, some mounted, all armed. One of them carries a deer slung over the shoulder, shot cleanly through the neck.

Through bleary eyes I see two of the mounted Elves come to the front. They are clothed in regal grey garments, with starry helms on their foreheads and raven hair pulled back in braids. They stand slightly taller than their companions, with broader shoulders and longer legs, yet carry the same grace and slightness as those they travel with. Their identical, fair faces are set with bright grey eyes, and my breath catches in my throat in realisation.

_The Sons of Elrond._

For the love of all sanity, how? How is this happening?

One of them, whose braid is thrown over a strong shoulder, dismounts his horse and steps towards me.

"You are no _elleth_," he says in the Common Tongue. "My comrade tells me you are a human, and yet you speak our tongue.'

My surprise and relief at him speaking my language must show because the edge of his lip quirks up in a small smirk.

"I…I am," I answer haltingly, swallowing nerves. "And I don't…don't really speak it. I just know a few words."

His eyes remain guarded, so much so I begin to squirm under his gaze. I cannot read a reaction in the grey. We stand silent for a moment before the other Elf on the horse – his brother Elladan, it must be – speaks.

"What is your purpose here, _penneth_?"

I am surprised by the sudden kindness with which he greets me. _Penneth? Really?_

"I..I seek counsel with Lord Elrond," I say jerkily, remembering my manners.

Elrohir arches a delicate eyebrow. "Oh? And what counsel would that be?"

"I, uh…"

But the words stick in my throat. I don't even have a chance to continue the sentence before the ground slips from under me and the forest floor comes rushing up.

An arm snatches out to grab me and I swat it away with a slurred "I'm fine", but whoever it is persists. In the end I am glad for it, because suddenly the non-existent sun is too bright, the twins have become triplets and my throat feels drier than the Sahara and the Gobi combined. My deprivation from water and food and any sense of normality has left me reeling.

I stumble blindly before I'm suddenly lifted from the ground, and seated upon a horse in front of the saddle. I feel movement behind me and an arm loops round my waist and the quiet click of a tongue is heard.

"Hold on, _penneth,_" says a voice in my ear, so calm and so soothing that I drift into the morning in my newfound net of safety.

* * *

**_Elvish Glossary_**

_Im Sarah – _Literally 'I am Sarah'

_Ce edhel? –_"edhel" being the masculine form of "Elf".Roughly 'Are you an elf?'

_Mae – _Literally 'yes'

_Rohir – _Elvish term for 'Rohirric' (race of men from Rohan)

_Hîr – _Elvish equivalent of "Lord", hence Hîr Elrond = Lord Elrond

_Elleth – _feminine form of "Elf"

_Penneth – _I am a bit fuzzy on this one, but I believe it is a term of endearment used by seniors when talking to someone significantly younger than them. _  
_  
**I'd appreciate any translation corrections or help as I am nowhere near complete the course I am taking in Sindarin!**

**Note: 'joggebukser' is the Norwegian equivalent of something like track pants. I can't bring myself to say track pants. Sorry if it was confusing!**

Also, the whole bit in the Paddock is essentially a true story. I wasn't there when it happened, but when I got back from school I saw the results. It was a nightmare ;)

I'd also like to make it clear here and now that I'm a hypocrite (by some part of the definition) as I am indulging in a bit of a Narnia-esque time lapse. Mostly because this isn't a really, really serious fic and I don't want to be seperated from my family for good through this fic. And also for the sake of possible post-War sequels. Just putting that out there.

Hope you enjoyed this - I'll try and cut down A/N's from now on!  
Please review!

-Fernstrike


	2. Seeking Counsel

**Hi everyone! :)**

**Sorry for the wait! This chapter went on longer than I expected, so it took longer to write. But before we get on with the story, I have to thank some brilliant people for reviewing:**

**LizardBeth96: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you like the character :)  
Kuchiki-koo: Thanks for the review, sis! I'm not sure what to make of the second part of that comment… ;)  
Nemo: Thank you so much for the review! I'm glad that you appreciate my character. I wanted her to seem refined and intelligent, and not brash and loud like other Tenth Walker fics I've read :)  
LalaithElerrina: Thank you, I am so grateful for your review. I've replied extensively in a PM :D**

**Nothing much else to say – on with the story!**

* * *

I must have fallen asleep on the ride to Rivendell, because next thing I know I'm waking up.

I feel my head resting against something soft and downy, with something clean and cool pulled up round my shoulders. The ground under me is soft. The backs of my eyelids are bright red from the light shining through them. In the distance, on the edge of hearing, there is the faint sound of rushing water.

_Where am I?_

I blink rapidly against the bright golden light the moment I open my eyes, leaving little black dots dancing in my vision. It comes from behind delicate white curtains hung in a beautiful frame that extends to the floor. _The floor?_

Oh. I'm in a room. That means this must be a bed.

Absorbing this new development, I take the opportunity to look the room over with my eyes only.

The space around me is beautiful. Rich carvings embellish delicate pillars and flowing ceilings. A simple yet elegant tapestry hangs on the wall straight ahead, depicting two beautiful trees encircled in a ring of silver. _Telperion and Laurelin. The Two Trees of Valinor. _

My eyes are drawn back to the curtain. Something flutters behind it. Every time the gentle breeze blows the curtain even just an inch, I catch a glimpse of something bright and beautiful shining behind. I shift where I am, wanting to go closer, wanting to see what's behind.

"Welcome to Rivendell, _penneth_."

I jump and shuffle quickly round in the bed, searching for the source of the voice. It's at that moment that I realise my head isn't throbbing, my throat feels healed and my ankle isn't aching anymore. I look up to see a tall elf standing before me, whose majesty stuns me into silence for a moment.

He is tall, regal of stature, and carries himself with the grace of the Eldar. A silver circlet sits on his brow above sharp, shrew grey eyes that look at me inquisitively, set in a fair face that looks neither old nor young. Long robes of some strange, soft looking material fall around a slight yet well-muscled frame, the frame of a _peredhel._ Instantly every element of the room is drawn towards his presence and I find myself unable to look at anything else

_Oh wow_. _Oh God. This is real. Wait, no it's not. No. No way. This isn't happening. Not to me. I'm not here._

_Am I?_

_"Hîr Elrond?" _I say quietly, not wanting to break the spellbound silence. My own voice surprises me; husky from disuse and thick with sleep, it comes out in more of a dry croak.

He smiles in amusement. "Do not be worried, young one. You have slept for a day now."

Oh gosh. Lord Elrond is _real. _He _smiled _at me.

But then my brain catches up to what he's just said and I find myself zooming back into the real (real?) world.

"A day?" I say surprised, and my voice actually makes sounds this time, albeit husky and soft. "What day is it?" Then as an afterthought, "What year?

"October the twentieth. The year is 3018," he says, looking a little puzzled as he comes to stand at the foot of the bed.

"Oh," I reply quietly. October the twentieth? Frodo arrives tonight, then. Oh gosh, this is moving too quickly. I'm really in Middle-earth. The War of the Ring is happening _now_.

The puzzlement vanishes from his face as he perches delicately on the edge of the bed. It feels strange to be in such proximity with such a hallowed person. I find it hard to resist the urge to wrap my blankets farther around me and hide away into them. "My two eldest found you in the woods, young one - human, on business to seek counsel with me." He speaks with the voice of a healer, quiet and reassuring. "Is it not?"

I must look like a frightened rabbit. My eyes feel stretched too wide from trying to take in the figure in front of me, trying to understand if I'm hallucinating or not. How do I just _accept _this? How do I just accept that I'm now in Middle-earth having a conversation with _Lord Elrond_? I've been here three days now. Three days in a realm that is not my own. _Three days_. _Oh my…_

"Are you alright _penneth?"_ he asks sympathetically. "Shall I take my leave?"

"Wha- no!" I say suddenly, breaking out of my reverie. He looks surprised, and I feel nervous again. Did I speak out of turn?

"I mean, I do seek counsel with you, my lord," I amend. "It's just…I'm still uncertain what about."

His eyebrows slide into a frown, and he is silent for a moment. At long last he speaks, with genuine curiosity and concern in his voice. "What is your name, young one?"

The questions come out of the blue, but I answer after a moment. "Sarah."

"And where are you from?"

Ah. That's what we needed to get to. I turn my eyes downwards, seeking the right words to get my message across.

"I…you see, I'm not entirely sure how to explain this, Lord Elrond…"

I look up hesitantly, and see him looking at me patiently. _Continue._

"I'm not from here. I'm not from Middle-earth at all. I've got no idea how I got here and no idea how to get back."

The words come out all in a rush, and I feel tears spring to my eyes against my better judgement. Oh, I hope he doesn't think I'm delusional.

He looks utterly perplexed. "What are you saying exactly, young one? That you are somehow not from this realm?"

His tone is just the smallest bit dubious, which kind of gets to me.

"Yes, I'm not from _this realm_," I snap. He raises an eyebrow and I quail a bit. "Sorry. I'm just…I'm so confused right now. I have no idea what's going on." I bury my face in my hands.

And then it hits me. I look up suddenly and Lord Elrond looks surprised again. "You said it's the twentieth?"

"Yes," he answers, in a tone inviting me to continue.

"That means that Mithrandir arrived two days ago, doesn't it?"

His grey eyes immediately reflect puzzlement. "How do you know of Mithrandir?"

Oops.

Time to backpedal. "Okay, maybe I didn't say it right. I do _know _about your realm, it's just – I'm not exactly…"

I know I sound frantic and probably look a good deal mad but Lord Elrond has to understand me. He can't turn me away. Not now. Not when I'm here already.

"Calm yourself, _penneth." _

I frown, the endearing term suffocating sounding decisively coddling.

He stands suddenly and walks towards the door. "I shall call on a healer to tend to you. You've had a trying time. You must sleep."

"I've slept for a day!" I cry out, desperate for him not to leave. If there's one thing about me, it's that I like to know things. I like answers. I need answers now, and if Lord Elrond or Gandalf are the ones who have them, they are _not _getting away so easily.

He stops with a hand on the door handle, looking at me sceptically.

"Look," I say, swinging my legs over the edge of the plush bed and stepping to me feet. I vaguely notice that I'm no longer wearing a wet jumper and joggebukser, but a shapeless white tunic that falls to my shins. Miraculously, I only sway for a moment before regaining my bearings, but Lord Elrond is already crossing the small room in long strides.

"_Penneth, _you are not yet completely recovered. Please sit down again."

His voice is stern and commanding, but I find myself unable to comply.

"Lord Elrond, _please,_" I plead. "The counsel I seek with you and Mithrandir may help answer some of your questions…and mine," I add as an afterthought.

He looks at me for a moment, almost pityingly, then sighs. "Very well. If you are so adamant that it be done, I will do it but to placate you. I shall inform Mithrandir of your coming. But wait here, young one," he says. I don't miss the commanding note in his voice, and I am reminded that he is both a warrior and a father – it'd probably be wise not to get on his wrong side.

"I shall return for you soon," he says, striding across to the door. He acknowledges me with a gentle nod, then steps out of the room and closes the door with a quiet click.

I find myself alone again.

Well.

I sit down quickly on the bed.

_Get a grip, _argues one part of my mind.

_I can't get a bloody grip, I just had a (generally) coherent conversation with Lord Elrond, _argues another.

_You should go look out the window, _whispers the last.

So I do. I stand again – slower this time – and make my way over to the white curtain. It flutters gently in the breeze, like moth wings, delicately nudged by whatever's out there. The presence of light behind it is what draws me. _Where there's light, there's bound to be a source. _And it's that source I want. By all logic, I should be in Imladris, but no amount of expectation can prepare me for what lies behind the curtain.

It steals my breath away. It's exhilarating. It feels too beautiful for my eyes. From the ornate balcony I stand on, I see the lushness of autumn blanketing every part of the place. From beneath me the red and gold trees spill out into the dell in a wave of copper, the sunlight of a late afternoon glinting off every leaf and flower. A magnificent waterfall cascades down in ivory flurries, the crystalline water falling away into the valley with the echoes of a chorus. And then there's the _buildings_. Structures both grand and small, all so intricate and flowing and so in sync with the world around them that they never look even a bit out of place.

_Rivendell. _

It's far more stunning than I could ever have dreamed.

I don't know how long I stand there, utterly spellbound, eyes wide and mouth open, just _looking. _Trying to absorb everything. It's impossible, and for the first time I wonder if this place was ever meant for mortal eyes.

"Lady?"

I turn in surprise, spurred out of the rapture, to see a beautiful young she-elf standing in the doorway. She is clothed in far simpler garb than Lord Elrond, with long copper hair that spills loose over her shoulders, reflecting the leaves outside.

"Good day," I say, dropping a simple curtsy in reverence for one of the Firstborn.

She laughs, a gentle sound full of such mirth and joy that a thrill rushes through me like a cold spring in winter.

"You are very curious, Lady," she remarks softly.

I blush, but she merely smiles radiantly. "Lord Elrond bade me escort you to his study."

"Thank you," I say, making to follow her out the door, but she stops me with a gentle hand.

"My Lady, we must clothe you in something a bit more…appropriate," she says, gesturing at my tunic. I look down again and realise how simple and lame it is; a sheet of white cloth that falls over my shoulders down to my knees with no shape _does _make me look rather ridiculous.

I look up to ask for a fresh set of clothes, and my eyes widen when she produces some from under her sleeve.

"This is an old garment, the best I could find in a hurry." Her tone is almost apologetic.

I take the dress from her, marvelling when I hold it up to look. It is a deep summer green, with a simple neckline and rushing skirts, and elbow length sleeves that gape wide at the bells. A simple ribbon runs from either side of the waist, tied at the back.

"It's beautiful," I say in a hush. "Thank you."

The _elleth_ turns round politely as I hurriedly pull the slip over my head and tug on the gown. It is a bit roomy –definitely meant for someone taller than me – but it's extraordinarily comfortable and actually looks nice on me, so I don't give a word of complaint. I'm about to follow her out the door when I remember something very important.

"Just a moment," I say hastily, looking on either side of the bed, then under it. _Ah._ I pull out my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. The _elleth_ looks at me quizzically.

"It's, er, something I need to show Lord Elrond," I stutter. Relatively vague and unoriginal, but she merely nods, despite the gleam of curiosity in her eyes. _Good. I'm not overly fond of people who pry. _

We walk down a hallway, up many stairs and through common lobbies. All around, I look with wide eyes at the infrastructure, at the artwork, at the _elves_. _Elves everywhere. _

Then we turn onto a quieter hallway, and I pluck up the courage to talk to the _elleth _again. "What is your name, if I may ask?"

"Nedriel," she says with a small smile. "And you my lady?"

"Sarah," I reply, the corners of my lips tugging in discomfort. I don't really like saying my name out loud. If she notices she doesn't mention it.

"Sarah," she says, a musing lilt to her voice. "That is a strange name, in a tongue I am not familiar with."

I allow myself a small laugh. "It's Hebrew, I think." At her confused look, I amend, "Uh, a language from my…realm. Country."

_Do I call Earth a realm or a…what? I need to ask Lord Elrond._

She tests the word out on her tongue, then says my name again. "What does it mean?"

I don't want to reply for a moment, because of how hoity-toity the meaning is going to sound. "Well…it means _princess._"

"Princess?" she says, with admiring eyes, and no hint of dubiousness or amusement. "That is a noble name."

I shake my head. "It's very common where I come from. My mother thought my namesake was a strong woman. That's why I'm called what I am."

"Perhaps a strong name will make a strong woman, My Lady," she says quietly.

I want to ask her what she means, but before I can, her eyes clear and she hurries ahead. "Ah, we have arrived."

She turns left, and we stand on another balcony – higher, this time – that overlooks the whole of the great dell. She leads me to a door set in the middle of the wall. Knocking thrice, she opens the door an inch and ushers me inside.

"I take my leave," she says softly.

"Thank you, Nedriel," I smile. Perhaps I have made a friend.

She smiles again and leaves, and I turn in the door frame to a sight that sticks me to the spot.

In front of me, on standing by the window, the other sitting in a lush chair, are Lord Elrond and Gandalf. As in, _Gandalf. As in, THE Gandalf. Gandalf the wizard. Gandalf the Maia. GANDALF._

I think I'm just going to sputter out like a candle and melt like wax into the beautiful flooring because of how stupidly unreal this is. It's impossible. Actually impossible.

Not like denial ever did any world-hopper any good, though.

So I try to act natural. Exude confidence. Which doesn't work when I virtually trip across the relatively even floor and fall into the chair to his left with the dignity of a dead sloth.

"Are you quite sure she should be out of bed just yet, Master Elrond?" says the wizard, looking out at me from under big bushy eyebrows.

"Just the shock of adjustment," I mumble incoherently, still staring wide-eyed at the figure before me.

I know that, had I looked at him in a different light, I would have seen a figure that exuded majesty and grandeur, wielding a staff of great power and donning robes of shining colours that seemed to come from the very fabrics of Arda itself. Whose inner possession of the Secret Fire would shine into the waking world and break the barrier, break the fourth wall between Us and Them, the Ainu. I can imagine almost how it would look when I see him become Gandalf the White, with the pure colour of Illúvatar shining in the light spilling forth from his being, illuminating a path through the spreading darkness and rekindling hope in the hearts of the lost.

But here? No. Here a see a kindly, wrinkled old grandfather – quite unlike the Elf beside him in demeanour – sitting jovially in a plush chair, casually smoking a pipe in the presence of a minor; observing a strange, confused little girl with undisguised mirth twinkling in his eyes. The feeling is one of warmth and homeliness and the smell of hot cocoa in winter.

So it is that I find myself in the presence of two awe inspiring figures, not sure where to begin in the retelling of a tale so extra-ordinary they'll probably never believe a word of it, and losing my tongue completely to the shock. All I can do is open and close and reopen my mouth like a stunned goldfish.

"You seem very shocked, _penneth,_" remarks Elrond, coming to sit in the chair opposite Gandalf.

"I just…" I murmur, surprised at my ability to form coherent words. "It's…I'm sorry." I run a hand through my hair. "This is all very sudden."

I can almost hear Lord Elrond say _I told you so, penneth_.

Well, maybe he did say it. In my _mind. _

My goodness, that's a freaky concept.

I shake my head, thrusting aside my thoughts, my inhibitions, my shock and my awe as best I can. "Well, I'd like to get straight into it, if that's alright by you," I ask. I have no idea how to start a discussion like this. "I seek counsel that I feel only you both may be able to provide."

"Tell us, child," says Gandalf, nodding his head. "But first we must know more about you! Who you are and where you come from."

"But you see My Lords, that is the very counsel I seek," I say apologetically. "But I shall begin all the same.

"My name is Sarah," I begin. List the facts first. "In a month I'll be fifteen years old. Yesterday I left my house to walk in a field. I was caught in a storm and suddenly found myself here. If I'm not wrong I was brought here by your sons, Lord Elrond."

"Yes, that is true," he nods. There is a short silence.

"Perhaps you are from the South?" muses Lord Elrond idly, running a thoughtful finger over his upper lip. "From the sun-browned shade of your skin and the colour of your hair…and yet your face and build is as those of Rohan."

I shake my head, just a bit frustratedly. "No, I'm not from Middle-earth _at all_. Where I am from I am of mixed blood, yes, and that's why I share the looks of two cultures. But that's not what counsel I sought."

Gandalf puffs a ring of smoke from his pipe. "Oh?"

"No," I say. "You see, I know who I am and I know where I came from. I just don't know how I got here, and whether I'm even in the same, well, dimension anymore. "

"You speak of going and coming from here and there and yet still we know not what you ask of us, child!" says Gandalf kindly, and I realise I must be making a bloody fool of myself and confusing them to no end. I shove the heels of my palms into my closed eyes in utter embarrassment and frustration. We're going in circles.

"I'm sorry," I say, and my voice sounds muffled to my ears. "I guess I'm just wondering how any of this is possible at all."

"What do you mean exactly, _penneth?_"

I sigh, defeated. Time for the big reveal. I can't think of any other way to explain the situation to them without being classed as a full-on madwoman.

"Perhaps this will explain more than I can," I say quietly, drawing my copy of _The Silmarillion _from my backpack. "You will recognise this."

I hold it out before me, not sure who to hand it to. Gandalf and Elrond share a look, between themselves and the book, then the _peredhel _takes it and looks at the cover.

"This is a book from my world," I say. "A world where you and this Middle-earth and all its peoples are but stories bound in novels."

I can see Lord Elrond's eyebrows sliding deeper and deeper into a perplexed frown as my words sink in and merge with the words he is reading on the pages.

"Impossible," he murmurs, before handing the book over to the wizard.

"I thought so too," I murmur.

We sit in silence for a while longer before the tension begins to weigh on me and make my shoulders strain beneath the weight of it.

"You're not meant to exist," I think out loud, knowing how blunt and cold that must sound, but what else can I say? "I must have travelled so far to reach this place. Perhaps I passed on in the storm that got me here. Or perhaps this is all a hallucination."

"But yet you feel it is most certainly the truth," says Gandalf sagely, breaking me out of my daze. I look up to see both of them taking me in with a mixture of curiosity, wariness and pity in their expressions.

"Yes," I say simply.

Elrond shakes his head. "I know not how you came to this world then, _penneth_, and so neither do I know how to get you back. I shall have to seek counsel with others of my kin."

I just nod.

"You have my leave to stay in Rivendell as long as you see fit."

His words surprise me and I look up. "Are you serious? But…"

He holds up a hand, placating me, so I say nothing more. Silence reigns again, but lasts less this time round, for now I have a very important question to ask of Lord Elrond. One that must be asked and answered today, and not wait for tomorrow.

"Lord Elrond…I must ask just one more thing of your generosity."

"Indeed?" he asks.

I nod. "You see…these books that were written – that were…prophesied by a great man of my realm. They also told extensively of the events of this Age. All the way into the next."

I can tell both his and Gandalf's interests are instantly piqued, as they both lean forward just a fraction of an inch in their chairs.

"I know everything that has and will happen; I know the outcome of this war; and I know what plan you will suggest to the Counsel six days from now regarding…Isildur's Bane," I say softly. It doesn't feel right to say "the Ring" in a place as beautiful as Imladris, even though I know far worse words will be uttered here before the week is up.

"Like a prophet," he says quietly, and I can see it is his turn to be stunned.

"What generosity do you seek?" asks Gandalf, giving voice to the words Elrond has just now failed to utter.

I sigh. _This is going to be big. The bombshell. I have to word it right. Not give anything away. Be convincing. Remember what you learned in English class when it comes to persuasive speaking…_

"I request," I begin, slowly, picking up momentum as the choicely picked words fall into place. "That whoever the Counsel shall decide will take the cursed thing to the Black Land…that I should go with them and see them through till the end of the Quest."

Lord Elrond studies me for a moment, and Gandalf looks on with a masked expression from under his eyebrows.

"I cannot allow it," says Elrond at last. I can feel my eyebrows slide into a sulking frown. "You are but a child. To go to Mordor…"

"And yet you would have a Halfling be the Ringbearer," I say without thinking, ticked off. I wasn't expecting a definite _yes, _but neither was I expecting a flat out _no_.

Gandalf sighs. "What Frodo has now been entrusted with was a working of Fate, child. He has taken it upon himself that with the Ring in his possession, he will see it unto the slopes of Orodruin, or surrender it to someone else who can."

"So why not let me aid in this quest?" I ask desperately. "Please. It's all I can do to be of some use in this war. I am no more than a dead weight if I stay here in Rivendell awaiting the passing of the Eldar and the fate of the world."

Lord Elrond is silent, so I continue.

"I am not without value," I press on. "I am not without knowledge of this world. I seek only to help for the good of freedom amongst all fair peoples of Middle-earth. Please, My Lords," I beg again, finally dipping my eyes.

In the silence, my mind wanders. To the figures before me, to the world outside, to myself. I am vaguely aware of how quickly my speech has changed to suit the archaic mode here in Middle-earth. Shame. I miss funny accents and slang and all that jazz.

I am just finishing listing a bunch of slang phrases I used to use a lot when Gandalf finally speaks.

"We shall have to think on this, young one," he sighs. "I think you do know what dangers lie ahead, and I am not sure whether to count your wish as bravery or foolishness. But then, we shall think the same of any who volunteer for this quest! You are very young, child, inexperienced. But we shall debate it all the same."

"Thank you," I nod. It's the best answer I can have for now.

I am about to rise, to excuse myself back to my room, when both Lord Elrond and Gandalf stiffen noticeably. Even I, without any advanced perception, can sense it. Something other than the dying day seems to have cast a quiet, almost unnoticeable pall on the city. I can feel some strange darkness leeching into my heart despite what I know is a city shrouded by the magic of Vilya.

"My Lords…?" I ask quietly.

"The Halfling as arrived on our side of the Bruinen," says Lord Elrond, hushed.

"He is pursued," I finish for him, feeling a chill run up the back of my neck. _The Nazgûl._

"I shall summon some means to banish them," he says quickly, rising and leaving without another word.

"I think," says Gandalf, also rising, "I shall go help him."

"Should I come with you?" I ask uncertainly.

"I think that will be unnecessary," says Gandalf, nodding reaffirmingly. "Yes, yes, just wait here, child. We should not be too long." He leaves as well, walking quickly out after the Elf.

Alone. Again.

I don't know how long I wait. The room faces west, so I can see the dying rays of the sun retreating into the horizon. The temperature dips with it, making me feel horribly under-dressed in my simple shift. At some point, the gentle canter of horse hooves drifts in from outside.

Night creeps in slowly with thick black fingers running lines across the sky. As the evening presses on they curl back to reveal bright stars, the likes of which I have never seen in my home country. It is altogether a beautiful sundown

All the while, sitting there watching the evening, I do nothing except sit in my chair, leaf through _The Silmarillion, _turn off my phone (which miraculously still has battery…I'll need to treasure that) and stare out the window.

I want to explore – I really do – but it doesn't feel right at all. Not people I know, not my house, not even my world – I've got no right snooping around Elrond's study. I simply take in the maps on the shelf, and shuffle a few loose leaves on the table, which just so happen to be in _Tengwar, _meaning I couldn't read them anyway. Oh well.

I must start to doze at some point because next thing I know I am jolted awake by the sound of hooves thumping again outside. My eyes snap open.

_Frodo must have just arrived!_

The realisation spurs me into action and I find myself jumping out of my chair and racing out the door, abandoning all reason and forgetting what Gandalf advised.

I don't know the geography of Rivendell at all, but I simply try a stairwell at the end of the balcony's corridor and find, to my luck, that it opens out into the courtyard before the gates. There are Elves and horses crowding into the place – not so many to make it stifling, but enough of a congregation. This must be the party that rode out to help Frodo.

At the head of the party is a fair elf, with an unconscious Frodo slumped against the neck of his horse. Around him, other Elves, both mounted and on foot, follow him in, with one leading the horse I guess must be Asfaloth. The white stallion whinnies as a tall blond elf comes through the gate to calm him. The stars above shine in his hair.

_Glorfindel. _I find my gaze captured by him, enthralled with a vague wonder.

But I'm broken from my trance when they come through the archway.

Three figures, all shorter than me by more than a foot. A tall man comes in after them, pulling back a heavy hood to reveal messy dark hair and keen grey eyes. I find my feet rooted into the ground and all I can do is look at them. Again, I'm hit by the fact that everything – all the people I'm meeting, everything I'm experiencing – it's all real. It _exists. These characters EXIST._

A hand touches my shoulder and I jump, turning round to see Gandalf looking at me with inquisitive eyes.

"I see your curiosity got the better of you."

I blush slightly. "I guess so."

"Come with me," he says motioning to the group by the gate. "Seeing as you are here now, there is someone you should to meet," he says.

"Who?" Although I have a feeling I already know the answer.

"The person who may end up fulfilling this quest – and more," he says cryptically, guiding me over to the hobbits who stand uncertainly by the gate. You can see the confusion and grief for their friend reflecting in their faces. The tall man behind them comes forward, putting a hand over his heart and inclining his head in a gentle bow. I can see him give me a curious glance as he sees me. All I can do is kind of _stare. No way. Not possible._

"Gandalf. My lady," he says politely.

Gandalf nods in reply, then turns to me. "Sarah, let me introduce you to Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

* * *

**Phew! That one was longer than the previous one, wasn't it? I kind of rushed the ending because I wanted to get the story up…I might rewrite it later.**

**By the way, I made a guess about Vilya – I like to think it works as Nenya does to keep its realm safe, but then again I haven't read extensively enough into the 'Histories of Middle-earth' to know. Please correct me if I'm wrong!**

**I'm actually really happy with how this chapter in particular turned out. I think I managed to do the dialogue alright, but my friends – it's your call! **

**Please review! It helps keep my motivation for getting these chapters up as fast and regularly as I can. **

**Cheers!**

**-Fernstrike**


	3. Discussions, Discussions

**Hello again! :)**

**Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long wait! It's exam week in school and I've been doing nothing but revising. I haven't had the time to finish this chapter.**

**That said, thank you all for reading the previous chapter! Special thanks go to: Le Max, LalaithElerrina, LizardBeth96 and Trololol123 for reviewing! I'm always very grateful for the feedback.**

**On with chapter 3!**

* * *

It feels like my windpipe is tied in a knot, refusing to let my vocal chords speak. It's Aragorn. _It's freaking ARAGORN._

The inner fangirl has just fainted.

"H-Hello, Lord Aragorn," I say hesitantly, but myvoice comes out soft and shaky. It's kind of spooky how much he resembles Viggo Mortensen, the actor that played him. But behind the physical, there is this strange air about him, the air of a forgotten lineage of noble blood, and the height and stature of a Dùnadan – things no mortal on our Earth could ever possess.

"It is an honour to meet you, my Lady," he says politely, inclining his head again. It makes me blush a bit, with all the politeness and the _my Lady-_ingand the whole _it's an honour _deal. It makes me feel much fancier than I am.

He looks up at Gandalf questioningly.

"Frodo is in safe hands now. Let Lord Elrond tend to him," says the wizard.

I look over to see the Halfling being lowered gently from the horse by fair Elven hands. His small, youthful face is white as snow and his eyes glazed over by some strange distortion. A strange, dark aura emanates from his being, and I can see concern and something like fear reflected in this faces of the Eldar surrounding him. Lord Elrond places a hand on Frodo's forehead, then directs the Elves in the direction of the house and follows them, likely to the healing rooms. I find myself repressing a shudder.

Looking back to the people next to me, I can tell that the ranger feels torn – whether to go accompany his sick young charge or to follow the wizard. Eventually, however, it seems he has faith in the Elven healers and nods at Gandalf.

"Good," says the wizard, perhaps with more cheerfulness than is entirely necessary. "There is much to tell you, my friend."

"So it appears," he says, curiosity in his voice, and he follows Gandalf as he heads back into the Last Homely House. He seems like a man of few words – a bit like me, I guess. The more you listen, the more you learn. As they walk, I take that as my cue to follow them.

I realise halfway that Gandalf is leading us back to Lord Elrond's study. Along the way, he and the Dùnadan talk about the adventures that Aragorn and the hobbits have had since leaving Bree. From Midgewater to the face-off with the Nazgûl on Amon-Sul, to the confrontation at the Ford of Bruinen.

I listen intently, comparing my knowledge from the books to the ranger's tales. It shocks me because everything is so remarkably accurate. _How the hell was Tolkien able to write about people from another dimension? It's like he got inside their heads!_

Eventually we find ourselves re-entering the study. Lord Elrond is not present, healing Frodo from the deadly Morgul wound. It's just us three

I retake my seat in the window, not slumped with shock like I was last time. No, now my body is tight with tension, and I sit up ramrod straight with my hands folded in my lap. If Frodo has just arrived that means the Council of Elrond will be in four days. That means that we have scarcely two months before the Fellowship leaves Rivendell and the war escalates.

Oh, and not to mention I am once again faced with _another _person that shouldn't, by all reason, exist.

_You have to get over the shock, _I tell myself sternly. _How are you going to be able to work with these people if you're staring at them every other second?_

And I need to work with him – because I _am _getting into the Fellowship, no matter what Gandalf or Elrond or Aragorn or anybody else has to stay about it. If I'm in Middle-earth I want to be in the centre of things, not waiting on the side lines for either the war to be won or our armies crushed. Of course, I know which of those two outcomes will happen.

_But you don't know, do you? _Says a quiet voice. _You don't know how much you being here will affect it. Remember the whole Butterfly Effect business. One moment of weakness – emotional or physical – could cost the armies of the Free Peoples everything. _

I shake my head inwardly to clear the wispy threads of doubt, and look back up, to see Gandalf and Aragorn seated, the latter waiting expectantly for the wizard to speak. I take this brief moment of silence as an opportunity to look at him again. The moon glints off dark brown hair, matted with the hardship of the Wilderland, while bright stars from above are reflected in eyes like pools of silver, holding the look of one with deep knowledge and experience who has seen much of the world. Even as he sits in his torn, dirt stained clothes, with what I know is a broken sword at his belt and light hunting boots on his feet, he carries himself with the dignity and kingliness of a man born of nobility. Vaguely I remember again that he was raised by Lord Elrond here in Imladris.

He looks to me suddenly and I avert my eyes, not wanting him to catch me staring. I feel my ears heat up.

"So, Gandalf," begins the ranger, turning away from me. "You would not have introduced me to this girl if you meant nothing by it."

"No," replies Gandalf, frankly looking quite pleased with himself. "I would not."

"Then…?"

"Aragorn," he says, sobering up. "I believe you know – or at least suspect – the course of action Lord Elrond intends to take against Sauron and the Ring."

The Aragorn's eyes darken. "Yes."

"This young lady has requested to be a part of it."

The ranger turns to me and studies me, roving over my face, my arms, assessing my strength and physique, assessing my character. Eventually I begin to squirm.

"It cannot be done," he says finally, turning back to Gandalf with a conflicted look in his features. "I could not do it."

"So says everybody," I mumble, letting my shoulders fall in defeat.

"This is not your time, my lady," he says, puzzled. "Women do not fight in wars."

"Gandalf," I say warily. "I think you may have left out a key detail."

The wizard looks at me with twinkling eyes. "I suppose I have."

Aragorn looks at us both with narrow eyes.

"Okay, let's stop being so conspiratorial," I sigh. "I think you can tell the story."

The wizard nods. "Aragorn…this young woman, here, is not of Middle-earth."

The ranger goes stony still. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not from Middle-earth," I repeat. "I'm from another realm. A completely different realm. One where you all don't even exist. Where you are characters in books that are given faces by people and put into plays."

I had to put it bluntly. How else would I get it all out without beginning another heavily convoluted discussion the likes of which I'd had with Lord Elrond?

Aragorn stares at me openly, letting silence rule the moment. "You are bold."

"I guess so."

He shakes his head. "Boldness can be good, when fused with wisdom. Without it, the bravery may cross the line into stupidity."

He studies the floor for a moment. "Yet you are not unwise, though I have spoken to you only for a very short time."

"Are you considering letting me join?" I ask, a bit too eagerly perhaps.

"Perhaps after I consider the idea of you coming from a different realm, where none of us are real."

I frown. "Well, you can believe me or not, but Gandalf knows it's true and I think you should trust his judgement."

"What judgement?"

"The judgement that it's true," I snap back, annoyed. This was absolutely not how I wanted my first conversation with Aragorn to go. And yet, looking back at him, I see no malice reflected in his eyes; just the glint of idle curiosity. It suddenly feels very stupid and childish to have snapped at him. "Sorry."

"You seem to be very staunchly set in your tale, my Lady," he notes.

"_Because it's true._"

The ranger sighs resignedly. "I find it too difficult to believe. But then, there are many, many countless things in this world that I do not understand, and perhaps you are one of them."

That makes me feel a bit better.

"Why are you so desperate to join our Fellowship, my lady?"

The question takes me aback at first, but I find the word coming to my lips before I can even consider an answer. "Selflessness."

I looks at me, puzzled, and I realise the need to elaborate. I stutter a bit, trying to find words to express the sentiment.

"I mean…the fellowship is all about selflessness, right? You're putting your lives on the line for the sake of Middle-earth, for your brothers across countries. You're giving your all for the greater good. That's not a very common quality in my realm." I swallow. "I just want to create my own little nook of selflessness. I could find so much purpose with the Fellowship. I think I could learn so much from you. I had to be brought here for a reason, right?"

I look down into my lap, feeling tears start to prick at my eyes. Maybe the only reason I ever came to Middle-earth _was _to learn from the Fellowship, to learn what really mattered. When you don't know someone, they might seem outwardly quiet and polite, kind-hearted and caring for others. They might seem like beautiful human beings. But around people they know; or if they're faced with something grievous like battle or death – you see their true colours. You see how bitter and selfish and heartless and self-preserving they could be.

That's me. Outside I'm quiet and polite and kind, but inside I'm ruthless and self-preserving. It's always been the one thing about myself I've been disgusted by.

I can't tell Aragorn or Gandalf any of that though – it's my own secret to keep, a burden I alone must bear. A little flame of hope lights in my chest. _Maybe the Fellowship could change that. Maybe they can remedy my greater faults._

"You understand I could not bring a young woman on this quest and make her bear such a responsibility as that."

I look up to see Aragorn studying me again, assessing me, observing me for every weakness and every fortitude. His words linger in the air, permeating the evening. It's a statement, but it hangs long and echoing, waiting to be answered. So as much as I don't enjoy making eye-contact with people, I lock eyes with him and look back as steadily as I dare.

"Is this a test?"

"Maybe."

I sigh deeply. "Then…then I can only say that it is a responsibility I choose to bear. Like I said, you guys exist in books. And I've read them." Aragorn raises a brow, but I continue. "So I know what happens in your quest. I know what hardships you must endure. And while I cannot promise I'll be any use at all; while I cannot say I can fight in a war or traverse the barren Plains of Gorgoroth when we encounter them – if I can offer at least some aid to the Ringbearer in his quest, I think…I think I would be content with that. I think I would be able to say I have done something."

And suddenly I realise just how much I care about Middle-earth. It's a lot more than I've ever cared for my own home planet, anyway.

"Then your heart is in the right place. The Council would be foolish to forbid you following us."

I look up, shocked. "What?"

"You may not be as great or strong as many of us, young one. But you are not without worth, I am sure of it. If a Halfling shall bear the ring, then we should find no cause to underestimate any of our other members."

"Be careful not to overestimate, though," I say quietly, still incredibly surprised. _So…I'm in? It sure as hell sounded like it. _

The ranger shakes his head. "No, I do not think I would do that, young one. However," and here, he glances over to Gandalf. "It is not my decision to make."

The wizard looks over to me. "You have said much worth repeating to Lord Elrond, child."

"I doubt I could."

He smiles. "Then I believe he shall trust in both our judgements."

_No way. _

"So…I'm in?" The words barely come through my lips because I'm smiling so much.

"I believe so," says the wizard, that twinkle lighting his eye again.

I find myself smiling wider than I thought possible. I unload all my gratitude on them, and lose count of how many times I say 'thank you so much'. Eventually Gandalf suggests I retire back to my room and rest, but reminds me to eat something. I realise vaguely how hunger has been gnawing at my belly all day, but I never really paid it much attention through all the surprises the day held.

As if on cue, there is a knock on the door as we rise from our places. A head pokes round the corner, and I smile widely as I recognise Nedriel. "Excuse me my Lords and Lady. Am I interrupting?"

"Oh, not at all," says Gandalf kindly. "We were just departing. Seeing as you are here, would you mind escorting our young Sarah down to the kitchens for a brief supper?"

"Of course," she nods, smiling warmly.

"Thank you again, Gandalf. Aragorn," I say, nodding a farewell. They return the gesture and follow out after Nedriel and I, albeit slower.

"You're still awake?" I ask curiously.

"Rivendell certainly doesn't run itself, my Lady," she says kindly.

"Oh, of course."

We walk in silence for some time, but it is a comfortable silence, broken only by the sounds of my mortal footsteps and the rushing of the waterfalls outside.

"You spoke for a great deal of time, my Lady," she says after many minutes walking through the silent corridors, occasionally broken as we pass doors, ajar with the sounds of merrymaking drifting outside.

"Indeed, there was much to discuss."

"Ah," is her only response, and she doesn't pry.

"I hope you aren't offended with my being so secretive."

"Not at all, my Lady," she smiles softly. "It is not my place to ask of others what they do not give freely."

"That is wise."

"It is my station," she says, puzzled.

"No, but I mean, people should think like that more often. People shouldn't be nosy when someone doesn't want to tell them something."

The words are strange, coming out without my knowing they were going to. I suddenly feel as though I've put myself in a rather awkward position.

But Nedriel only nods, contemplative. "I can understand that I think, my Lady."

"Thank you."

We walk on in silence again, her mulling over my probably foreign thinking, me still bubbling with excitement at the prospect of joining the Fellowship.

Eventually we descend a few flights of stairs (one of which has an open rail, showing me we are near the base of a waterfall) and come to a low hall, with four corridors branching off it. "Down here," says Nedriel, going into the leftmost one and descending a few short steps before going through another short corridor and emerging into a wide room. The Rivendell kitchens.

It is relatively empty now, with only a couple of Elves that I presume are sorting and taking final stock of the day's food. Around me, freshly plucked berries and fruits sit in open barrels, with some even growing on wild bushes tended from the indoors. Wide cooking pots sit upside down over the stoves, wet after being washed, and game sits seasoned in dry cupboards above the stoves. All around, the scents of sugar and something like cinnamon mingle with something sweet and tart, like berry juice – likely the aroma left by supper.

"Forgive me for making you walk so far," Nedriel says apologetically, leading me around to the back, away from the curious Elves who have looked up from their work to take in the newcomer. "We'd already cleared everything from the main dining hall."

"Not at all," I reply. "I rather enjoyed the walk, actually."

She smiles as she twists the lid of a barrel –once –twice – and lifts it off. "How would you feel about some of these?"

I peer over to see the barrel filled three quarters of the way with juicy, blood red cherries. "Oooh, I'd love some!"

My stomach growls again with perfect comic timing, and Nedriel laughs. "I shall put some in a bowl for you, so that you may eat them in the quiet of your own room."

"Thank you," I say, returning a soft laugh.

She nods. "Wait here a moment – the ceramics will all be in storage by now."

She leaves quickly, back through the kitchens and up the stairs to the hall, and I'm left alone – again – with only the two other Elves in the kitchens, still sneaking glances at me in the midst of their work. My stomach growls again and I dip into the barrel prematurely to pull out a cherry. I pop it into my mouth and chew quickly, and, realising they probably don't have trash cans in Middle-earth, end up fiddling with the seed in my mouth.

I cast a sideways glance at the Elves at the corner and see them snickering quietly. I blush (just a bit).

It isn't very long before Nedriel comes back, carrying a nicely sized white bowl, sculpted by a beautiful hand with intricacies on the sides and the lip scooping over like a budding flower. Damn, even the _tableware _here is fancy. I say as much to Nedriel, but she simply laughs.

"We take pride in all our crafts, my Lady," she says as she scoops handfuls of cherries into the bowl. "Would you like some bread and butter as well?"

"Yes please," I say gratefully. "Do you usually leave food out after the dinners?"

"The kitchens are always open," she says, leading me further back into a wide pantry. It's huge, with shelves upon shelves of all sorts of foods, and the shelf she leads me to piled high all the way across the hall with all sorts of bread and waybread – enough to host consecutive feasts.

"No animals bother us," she continues, pulling a small bun out of one of the higher shelves, and then leading me back round a few other shelves to a shelf near the back, laid with spreads and cheeses and butters. There are little blocks and big blocks of all shapes and sizes, and she takes one small lump for me wrapped in dark green leaves, putting it along with the bun into my fancy little bowl.

With my supper sorted she leads me back out and through the kitchens, past the two Elves who ogle me again, and back out and up the stairwells. Through the one open flight of stairs I see the moon just sliding up to its highest point in the sky.

Very soon we pass some familiar halls and the next thing I know I'm coming up to the room I'd started in, and Nedriel's opening the door and presenting me to a washed, silky shift.

"Thank you so much," I say, as she prepares to take her leave. "All of you here at Rivendell have been so kind and hospitable.

She simply inclines in her head with a soft smile. "We are the last homely house, may lady. Any traveller seeking refuge will find all comforts here."

I return a soft smile as she bids me goodnight and exits, leaving me to my own devices for the remainder of the night (or perhaps it is early morning).

I remove my green gown and lay it over the chair by my bedside, pulling on the shift and picking up my bowl of food as I head outside onto the balcony.

In the calm of the evening Rivendell is transformed, into a quiet haven with the moonlight coating the trees in a bright net and turning the leaves into a glistening silver. All around the starlight catches in the cool waterfalls and flows brightly into the valley below, gathering in the Bruinen and flowing down in the deep and shallow places. Everything seems to be turned to hues of silver and white and blue and black, even my nails and fingers as they pop silver cherries into my mouth. I sit in the corner of the balcony, admiring everything, thinking nothing and relishing the peace, just eating until I've finished all the cherries and eaten the bread and butter and the cherry pits are clumped together in one corner of the bowl.

Slowly, I get up; reluctant to leave the strange dreaming world out there – but I do end up putting the bowl on my bedside and crawling into my downy bed. I lie awake for at least an hour, thinking back on the day. I run over every conversation, every person I've seen, over and over until my brain goes numb and I slip away, just a few hours before dawn.

* * *

Truth be told, the next few days pass uneventfully. I spend much time with Nedriel, who likes to check in on me now and then. She takes me around the house, introducing me to her friends; taking me to the magnificent gardens and pools at the bottoms of waterfalls; letting me meet the horses in the stables. I spend the time in a strange sort of dazed wonder, giving myself over to my senses and refusing to think.

On my third day there – the day before I know Frodo will wake up – I meet Aragorn again by chance, and he decides to introduce me to the other Hobbits.

They were all very polite, and I feel a bit guilty to say they were very, very cute. Pippin _was _just a few inches taller than Merry, and very friendly, cracking a joke before we were a minute in to introductions. Merry was just as, if not more, bright and full of energy, but you could tell there was a bit more…_sensibility _about him than Pippin. As for Sam, well, he was as expected – soft spoken and very polite, always addressing me as 'Ms. Sarah' despite my insistence of dropping the title. If there's one thing I've learned about these Middle-earthians, they absolutely love titles.

I'd had half an expectation of perhaps meeting Bilbo, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps through their worry – I could see it in their faces – and excitement, they forget to mention him. Oh well. After the Council I'll still have two months before the Fellowship departs Rivendell; plenty time enough to get to know more people.

And so it was that I woke the next morning, many hours after dawn (much to my chagrin – I don't like waking up late), and headed down in a fresh tunic to the serving hall, ready to have a nice, filling brunch and some of that heavenly river water. It felt strange to navigate the place so easily, after only having been there for such a short time. I recognised a few Elves as they passed to and from the corridor

I'd just stepped into the hall when a figure came running through the hall, and I looked up startled to see Merry screech to a halt in front of me.

"Good morning!" I exclaim.

"Morning!" He gasps, evidently out of breath. "Sarah, I have the best news! Frodo's awake!"

It only takes me a few seconds to register this. Then I'm grabbing a bun from the table and sprinting out of the hall after him.

* * *

**And that's that!**

**Sorry for it being a bit shorter than usual – exams drain me of my creativity…and I do know this one was a bit tedious. It's kind of the filler before the action starts!**

**I can't make any promises for the next chapter. It will likely be another fortnight, but after that we'll be back to weekly updates :)**

**Thanks for reading – please review!**

**-Fernstrike**


	4. The Council of Elrond

**Hello all! :)**

**Thanks for reading the previous chapter. (Only one review? Hmmm? Come on, ghost readers, I know you're out there!) **

**We're finally at PLOT! Here comes the gloriously long winded Council of Elrond. You know what that means – lots more Elf talking! *hears groans from readers* Bear with me guys! I'm using some artistic liberty here to crossover with the movie scene of the Council, seeing as that is much more…succinct. I'm not going to keep all details to the movie because that would be weird, so just bear with it guys :P Oh, and I'm screwing with the timeline a bit in the beginning, because I missed one detail from the book when writing the previous chapter. So sorry!**

**By the way: thank you to Trololol123 for your extremely supportive review! I've thanked you extensively in real life ;)**

**Chapter 4 – here we go!**

* * *

So it was that I found myself waiting outside Frodo's room with Merry and Pippin. Sam was inside, greeting his friend after he was finally awake after four days of being absolutely catatonic. Merry and Pippin planned to pounce on him the moment he got out, and I was invited to join in.

And the two of them do pounce on him the moment Sam comes out the door, leading his master after him. Of course, seeing as it would be a bit weird to tackle Frodo if I hadn't met him yet, I allow Merry and Pippin some room to greet their friend and get a bit hyper before Frodo finally notices me hovering by the wall.

"Hullo," he says curiously.

"Hello, Frodo," I say warmly. Suffice to say, he looks like he's seen his fair share of trouble – a bit thin, with his green Rivendell garments hanging off his frame just a bit loosely. His dark curly hair is still tousled with sleep but his eyes are bright and thoughtful.

He tips his head to the side in a way that makes me want to run up and squish him. "How do you know my name?"

Involuntarily, I laugh a bit. "Most everyone here does, Frodo. You did arrive here rather…dramatically."

"Yes, I suppose say," he says, smiling a bit. "And what is your name?"

"Sarah," I say, holding out my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He looks at my outstretched hand a moment, then shakes it, still with that puzzled smile on his face. All of a sudden his eye clear and his mouth hangs open slightly. Confused, I'm about to ask him what's up, when he breaks into a wide smile and releases my hand.

"Bilbo!" He cries, stepping quickly around me.

I turn round to see probably one of the sweetest sights I've seen since coming to Rivendell. There's old Bilbo, looking frailer than I'd anticipated, hobbling up to embrace his cousin in a way that looks as though new life has been breathed into him. Aww.

"That's sweet," I remark absently.

"Sweet as sugar," says Pippin from behind me. "Are you going to eat that?"

"Huh?"

He points to the bun in my hand. "Oh," I laugh. "I'd totally forgotten about that. Well yes, I am."

"Oh," he pouts. "I'm hungry."

"Go to the dining hall then!" I smile. "I'll come with you if you like. We can let Frodo and Bilbo catch up."

"I reckon I'd better stay with Mr. Frodo," says Sam as we start to head off. "Just in case he gets tired, or the like."

"Sure," I reply, biting into the bun. _Dammit, Rivendell buns are like my new favourite food. I could live off these._

"You sure I can't have that?" whispers Pippin from beside me.

"Not a chance," I reply.

* * *

So it was that later in the evening I discovered there was to be a feast to honour Frodo's close brush with death and subsequent recovery.

"Do you just take any opportunity to have a feast?" I had asked Nedriel as she had brought me to the Weavers' to look at some dresses.

"Sometimes," she'd laughed.

But here I am, in the Weavers', amongst beautiful Elvish seamstresses who pull freshly wrought silks and linens and all manner of beautiful fabric from delicate looms. Dresses and gowns and tunics and robes hang on the walls in all colours of the earth – from the deep red of an ember to the sharp blue of a glacial stream, and the greens of the winter evergreens to the tan of the sun warmed earth. Some are plain, some adorned with jewels or lace or simple embroidery, but all are utterly magnificent.

"Do you just make and keep hundreds of dresses?" I ask in wonder, reaching out a finger to stroke at the soft fabric of a dress that hangs by a hook on the wall.

"In a way," she says. "We keep many of our spare clothes here, and get new ones woven. Sometimes the nobility come here to have grand garments like those –" she points to an ornately decorated gown of midnight blue, "- made for them."

"It's brilliant," is all I can say.

Nedriel guides me round the back of the room, to where the more modest dresses are. We go through many different designs, putting them on, taking them off, asking opinions of her weaver friend Alassë, twirling our skirts so the wind catches under them.

It feels strange, to be so girly and openly indulging in flattering ourselves. I've never felt so effeminate. I've never been to the shops to pick out a dress for any occasion with a friend, not least two, and to be able to have the liberty of picking this and that and putting it on and taking it off. It has some strange sort of release, like I've just been waiting to unleash my need for femininity.

Every single gown is so beautiful that I end up saying I want every single one, and Nedriel and Alassë have to decide on which one I'll wear. We end up choosing a quaint little number – a long, dark, earthy red gown made of some strange, soft fabric, that doesn't cling to my body but fits my shape after some adjustments by Alassë. The sleeves fall to my elbows, where they trail of slightly with little tails to my wrist, and a modest collar sits right on my collarbone. A simple gold band sits on the hips, and the collar and hem are trimmed with a delicate gold. It is so _simple _yet so bold, shining out with the colours of autumn and making me look and feel taller and brighter than any clothes on our Earth ever could. I don't think I've ever felt so utterly happy in my life over something so material.

"It's absolutely _perfect,_" I gush, as Alassë makes the final adjustments to tuck in the extra fabric that falls loosely around my small chest.

"You look wonderful," says Nedriel with a satisfied smile. She holds in her hands her own new garment – a minty green dress made of something that looks velvety, which cuts off at the shoulders. Her sleeves are made of a thinner, more opaque green, and they cuff at the elbows, spilling off loosely after them. Again – simple, and modest, but graceful and flattering.

"Done," says Alassë with a grin. I swish the skirts once more, looking at the dress from the sides and the front. Yes, this one is beautiful.

"I'll take it," I beam.

So we are very productive that afternoon. After we leave the Weavers' with our new dresses, I stop by Nedriel's modest sleeping quarters where she goes over to a little bureau and pulls a small wooden box from it.

"Wear this tonight, for me," she smiles, lifting a small gold chain with a delicate, silver, four-pointed star as a charm.

"Are you sure?" I ask nervously. "It looks quite precious."

"Don't worry," she says. "Take it – you don't have any jewellery to wear tonight anyway!"

Well, that's kind of true. So with a grateful smile, I accept it.

* * *

The evening rolls around with a chill but the sounds of merrymaking below and the scents of wine and spices and woodsmoke are all so warm and inviting that the cold seasons can't break through to my skin.

I stand out on the balcony in my new dress, with my hair pulled back in a simple braid, looking out over the forests and waterfalls and gardens of Rivendell, lit with lanterns and candles like the stars in the darkening sky. In the gathering dusk, I find my mind wondering to melancholy and bittersweet thoughts.

A week. I've been in Middle-earth for just over a week now. It doesn't feel like it. Somehow everything has fit so seamlessly together, and the hospitality of Rivendell has removed all thoughts of discomfort or prejudice, so that I find myself living as though I've just come back from a very long holiday and found myself in a place I once knew, that is now full of strange new things waiting for eyes to see them.

It feels strange to have met so many people, to see so many places, all of which should not exist, and yet befriend them and coexist with them and become a friend to them. It's so _odd_. It makes me wonder how something like this could have happened. And why? Why to me?

The thoughts are shaken from my head as the whistle of a high flute floats through the air, signalling the beginning of the feast.

I rush from the room, going down the stairs with the wind behind me, holding up my long skirts to keep from tripping on them. My thin, leather slippers muffle the sound of my footsteps in a way I did not know was possible, and I move quietly down through the corridors until I come upon the crowd, moving into the great Hall of the Last Homely House.

Gandalf had advised me stay close to the hobbits during the feast. I couldn't sit with him, as he would be near the nobility (of which I was not of rank), and Aragorn would not be there (though he didn't say why), so I decided to stay by Frodo and Sam, who were the most sensible from the hobbits as far as I'd seen.

I enter the hall quietly, fiddling with the chain round my neck and not drawing attention to myself. I pinpoint Frodo, with his seat raised by a number of small cushions being hastily restacked by an old dwarf with a curiously pointed white beard.

"…your service and your family's!" I hear Frodo saying, surprise in his voice.

"Hello, Frodo!" I say as I near his seat. He turns to see me and his eyes light in recognition.

"Hullo!" he replies, as him and the Dwarf take their seats again. "Come sit next to Gloin there!"

I sit on the other side of the Dwarf, who instantly steps out of his seat and bows his head. "Gloin, at your service my Lady!"

"Sarah, at your service and at your family's," I say, remembering what Frodo had said, and dipping a small curtsey in reply.

Gloin smiles happily in response, sitting back into his seat.

I look up and down the table. The other Hobbits sit near us, with Sam looking distinctly uncomfortable with being treated as a revered guest rather than the humble gardener that he is. At the head of the table sits Lord Elrond, and on one side is Glorfindel, and on the other is Gandalf. A strange air of nobility and power radiates from their end of the table and I find myself feeling distinctly out of place among such powerful, honourable beings.

When the food is set before me I am totally distracted. I think if you went to the most fancy, high collar, four-figure-billing restaurant in the world you would never see nor taste anything to compare to the amazing delicacies of Rivendell, that look so simple and quaint and yet are more flavourful and filling than anything I have ever found myself eating.

I suddenly see across from me a figure seated under a canopy – her face is fair, with a countenance not unlike Lord Elrond's, and a face that is neither wise nor naïve, and in a moment I know I am looking upon lady Arwen. When the canopy shifts I avert my gaze.

We spend the rest of the feast with Gloin giving us news of the outside world, especially in the Dwarven kingdom. I learn about the fate of the Dwarves after the events of 'The Hobbit'; how Dain is still King under the Mountain; how Bombur is now so fat it takes six young dwarves to move him from his couch to table; how poor Balin has not been heard of for a long time.

"…and on that errand is one of the reasons I have come to Rivendell," says Gloin gravely. "To seek the counsel of Elrond."

"I hope you're able to find out what's happened to him," I say in consolation as I tuck in to another bite of some seasoned meat (I think it's deer). I am allowed to drink wine that evening, so I take a quick sip of my half-finished goblet.

"Aye, me too," nods Gloin, his long angular beard wagging against his knees as he does.

By the end of the feast I am feeling distinctly full from the sweet and savoury foods and warm from the wine. The fuzz of contentment lies over my eyes and I just feel like sitting somewhere cosy and quiet for a while to savour the peacefulness.

Suddenly the Elves begin to rise and leave the hall, so I find myself forcing my feet to move and rising heavily from the seat. I follow the group down many hallways until we emerge into a dim hall. It is wide and warm and low-ceilinged with two supporting pillars and a large fire glowing brightly at one end.

I seat myself against the wall as the Elven minstrels begin to play, and before long I find myself nodding off to the beautiful music and poetry of their sagas. The air around me is filled with the smells of firewood, and the fragrant evening air of flowers and river water and pines, and the sounds of the angelic Elven voices flowing through without breaking the steady sounds of nature. They fit seamlessly and create their sweet song as one. Above me it feels as though the world is made of some golden water, some great blanket of liquid warmth floating around my eyes, settling on my lashes and making my eyelids droop. A low chant buzzes in my ears, making my head go fuzzy from the fullness and the warmth on top of the music and firelight and the smell of flowers.

Before long, I am asleep.

* * *

I am roused in the morning by a cold hand, and look up to see Nedriel's face lit by the faintest light of dawn.

"Time for the Council," she says softly, rising and going out of my line of vision.

To my surprise I am back in my room. Someone must have carried me back after the merrymaking in the Hall of Fire. I rise carefully, finding myself in the slip I wore under my gown. Nedriel wordlessly hands me the same simple green gown I'd worn on my first day here, now adjusted to my size. I can see the tension in her face, reflected in my own. Everybody knows that the Council today could – no, it will – determine the fate of Middle-earth.

As I quickly splash my face, plait my hair and follow her down to the meeting place, my mind is filled with gloomy thoughts.

The feeling of forcing myself upon these people returns again. The feeling that I'm not entirely welcome, and somehow this makes me feel as though I've carried too much of my personality overe from my world. No, Middle-earth is different. I must invent a new person for myself, the Sarah of Middle-earth, and I must show them that I am going to play a part in this Quest, whether they let me go willingly or not.

And then there's the bitter, petty resentment of having to attend such a long, arduous Council. I force myself to understand the need to attend, to remind myself. _You're becoming 'Middle-earth Sarah'. If you have to change yourself and your interests to find a place in this unfamiliar world, so be it. _I sigh inwardly. Yes, I do know where the Ring is going, but if I want to be involved in the Quest I have to be involved in the politics of the realm also, no matter I know the outcome or not. Well, at least it's a good thing I'm interested in politics.

When I arrive, nearly all of the Council is already gathered there. Lord Elrond sits at the heart of the circle, with his gaze hard fixed upon the pedestal in the centre of the circle. I take a seat next to Gandalf, who is seated next to Frodo. The stone chair is exceptionally tall and deep, and I find myself having to perch tensely on the edge. I take a deep breath, and next to me the air shifts as Gandalf leans over discreetly.

"Try not to speak here unless spoken to," he says quietly. "You are not yet familiar with the custom of Councils within our realm."

"Gotcha," I murmur back.

A couple of late-comers saunter in with the audacity of celebrities. Being mostly Elves they earn some scathing looks from the already seated Dwarves (eliciting a snigger from me that makes Gandalf elbow me in the shoulder).

Then all too soon the Council is assembled, and the tension returns, and it begins.

Elrond rises tensely from his seat and stands over the assembled Council, sweeping them with a stone cold, analytical gaze. The silence lingers for a moment before he speaks.

**"**Strangers from distant lands, friends of old," he begins. "You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it."

The reality sinks in slowly, within the stiff silence of morning.

"You will unite or you will fall," he continues ominously. "Each race is bound to this fate – this one doom." He suddenly gestures to the pedestal. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

My heart speeds up in my chest as the Halfling places the cursed thing on the pedestal.

"So it is true," murmurs a man from across the circle, someone dressed in curious clothing unalike to the others, but he leaves my mind completely when I turn back to the Ring on the pedestal.

I find myself entranced. The little gold band, sitting so innocently for the world to see, looks back at me with frightening transparency. I can see all my worries and doubts from before reflected in its shining, untarnished surface, reflected back at me, until I realise actually how petty and simple they are to solve, how they are but a trifling, childish need. Easily satiated.

You see, this Ring, it understands me, and where I'm coming from. It knows the trials I face. It could help me, actually. It could, couldn't it? I mean, hypothetically, if I had the Ring I could easily prove to the Fellowship how much worth I have, that I'm not a weak girl to be underestimated. I'll be forging a place for my own, if I was able to carry the Ring to Mordor instead of Frodo. Hey, I could spare him the trauma he'd be bound to face and get recognition and accomplishment and acceptance in this realm.

Yes, and if I ever return to Earth – despite how upsetting that could potentially be – the Ring could satiate all the anger and frustration and jealousy that always threatens to consume me over there. Hell, the Ring could probably get me back to Earth too on top of everything else. Yes, logically, why shouldn't the Ring come to me? It makes perfect sense.

"The Doom of Men," someone mutters and I jolt.

_Oh God._

_Oh my God._

Horror. It fills every inch of my body as my mind rises, leaden, out of my stupor, and I have to shut my eyes against the lure of that abomination.

This is insane. This is _horrifying. I have never felt such desire and loathing for anything before._

I've only _looked _at the damned thing and already it is getting into my head and warping my negative, human needs. Within seconds of seeing it, it's _consumed _me.

I don't think it's the power of the Ring that scares me. No, it's the fact that I don't have the power or self-restraint to _resist_ it.

Suddenly, across the Council, the strangely dressed man rises from his seat to address the Council, and I snap my head up to look at him as he paces round the circle.

"In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark," he begins, and I feel myself shocked as I get an inkling of who this man is. He looks around the Council. "In the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: Your doom is near at hand," he says softly, inching closer to the Ring. "Isildur's Bane is found."

The reaches out towards the Ring and a feeling awakes within my chest, like there's a string tied to my sternum and it's being pulled in the direction of the Ring. Is it telling me to stop him? Or – God forbid – telling me to get it before he does?

"Isildur's Bane…" he murmurs again.

Elrond suddenly jumps up with concern rife in his eyes.

"Boromir!" he cries.

The Ring cries out with a sudden sharp voice that crackles in my ears and Gandalf suddenly stands up with incredible speed. Thunder rolls from above as the sky darkens with deep, bruised clouds.

_"Ash nazg durbatulûk!" _he chants._ "Ash nazg gimbatul!" _

I press my hands over my ears in horror as my vision blanks. His voice is deep and broad, like a dark cavern, and yet shrill with the sounds of the guttural screams of a wraith, and behind it is the echo of darkness and hopelessness and fire and shadow, full of such horror and evil that I feel the most primal fear taking hold of my person.

_"Ash nazg thrakatulûk," _he continues with equal vigour._ "Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"_

And all too soon the voice of the Ring, channelled through the good Istar, is cut off, and I am able to regain sight and hearing to look around. People all over the circle wear the same fearful, horrified, confused expression, all sitting tense and jumpy in their seats. Boromir reluctantly takes his seat as light returns again to the sky.

Elrond looks at Gandalf with scathing eyes. "Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris!"

"I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond," replies the Wizard, his speech hampered as though his throat has been lacerated from the sheer force of the dark language. "For the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West! The Ring is altogether Evil!" He concludes, slumping wearily down in his seat next to me. He sends Boromir a withering look, ignoring my fearful face completely, so I shift my eyes to the Man of the South, sitting, staring at the Ring, undeterred in his seat.

There is a deep, desperate pause, before he shakes his head and I find myself biting back a groan of frustration.

"It is a gift," he says in wonder. "A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring?" He stands again, refusing to seat himself despite Elrond raising his hand placatingly. He continues, with passion and patriotism bright in his steely eyes.

"Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe!" He pauses for a moment, spreading his arms in the gesture of an ultimatum solution. "Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!"

"You cannot wield it!"

I turn my head slightly to see Aragorn, looking at Boromir with an exceptionally objective expression, masking any inhibitions or first impressions.

"None of us can," he continues, all the Council's focus on him. "The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" sneers Boromir dubiously.

An Elf stands suddenly from a few seats down, and going by the order of events I think I've determined exactly who he is.

"This is no mere ranger," growls the Elf, his fists clenched tight at his sides. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance," He finishes, staring Boromir down with the burning gaze of cold fire.

Surprise and wonderment are reflected in Boromir's face as he turns back to stare at the ranger, who holds his gaze steadily. "Aragorn?" He says in disbelief. "This... is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," says the Elf, the implication clear in his voice.

I notice Frodo staring wide eyed at Aragorn, and I can't help but follow suit. Out of his normal ranger clothes, and among the wise and noble of the Kingdoms of Middle-earth, he looks very much like the heir to a noble throne.

But Aragorn merely shakes his head and raises a placating hand. "_Havo dad, Legolas_."

Legolas glares daggers at Boromir for a moment longer before sitting down on his chair with stony silence. Boromir merely stares at the Elf, conflicted emotions crossing over his face, before he sets his jaw and shakes his head.  
**  
**"Gondor has no king," he spits, returning to his seat. "Gondor needs no king."

There is a stiff silence again, registering the previous tense moment before Gandalf breaks it. "Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

Elrond sighs and stands, ready to deliver the ultimatum. "You have only one choice," he says, his voice almost weary. "The Ring must be destroyed."

"Then what are we waiting for?" says a gruff voice, and my head snaps round to see a Dwarf grabbing an axe and stomping over to the pedestal. He lets out a cry as he brings the axe smashing down onto the Ring.

He is thrown back onto the ground with exceptional force, and I see Frodo wince in obvious pain from his seat, pressing a hand to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Frodo?" I whisper. "Are you alright?"

Before he can answer Lord Elrond speaks, with something that looks an awful lot like pity for a lesser being in his eyes. "The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess."

It is evident. The Ring sits where it was, simple and small and circular and gold, unharmed and rimmed by a perfect circle of the shards of the axe. The foul, distressing Tongue of Mordor seems to come whispering from the Ring itself.

Lord Elrond looks around the Council. "The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade." His face hardens. "It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.

"_Ash Nazg,_" a fell voice whispers, making the hairs rise on the back of my neck.  
**  
**"One of you," says Elrond, sweeping his gaze over the Council. "…must do this."****

There is dead silence from the Council. We are all deep in thought processing this obvious solution. It seems like such an exceptionally simple task but it's almost as though the very vision of Mordor is playing before our eyes. Then, Boromir stirs, shaking his head with a grimace.

"One does not simply walk into Mordor," he says slowly, deliberately. I have to muffle my mouth in my hand because despite the seriousness of the moment I think I would never be able to take that line seriously.

"Its black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs," he continues, and I sober up. "There is evil there that does not sleep. And the great Eye is ever watchful," he says, voice dripping with disapproval. "It is a barren wasteland. Riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume." He shakes his head, weariness and frustration etched in his face. "Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!"

"Have you heard_ nothing _Lord Elrond has said?" cries out Legolas suddenly, standing up in indignant frustration. "The Ring must be destroyed!"

"And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?" exclaims Gimli, leaping up from his own seat.

Boromir rises in agitation, his voice rising to a shout. "And if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

Gimli points gloved finger at Legolas. "I will be_ dead_ before I see the Ring in the hands of an _Elf!"_

Immediately the Council erupts in protest, every Elf standing from his seat at the open display of racism. Shouts of accusation and insult cut through the air.

"Never trust an Elf!" cries the Dwarf as his kinsmen stand up beside him to support him.

From next to me Gandalf sighs, pressing his forehead into his hand. "This is madness."

"This is politics," I reply, watching the arguments with rising agitation in my mind.

I watch for a moment longer before having to stand, because I seriously can't handle how difficult it is for everyone to grasp the obvious, and to be perfectly honest I kind of like arguments. As long as they don't escalate into physical violence.

Unfortunately, just as I'm about to make a grand entrance and say all my brilliant arguments to convince people, Boromir walks straight in to me en route to argue with someone else.

"Stay out of my way, child!" he spits.

I splutter indignantly, thrown off guard, then seize the moment to niggle at the root of the argument. I'm impulsive. So sue me. "You're being ridiculous, you _instigated _this argument."

"The damned Elf and the Dwarf did!" he shouts back, attempting to walk away.

"So what? You were the first to write this off as folly!" I cry, and he turns around.

"The whole idea is folly! Lord Elrond knows not what he says, when he requests something so obviously foolish of the Council!"

"Don't you understand _crap, _man?" I growl, crossing my arms. "If we don't even bother to attempt this quest, no matter how damn suicidal it is, we're _all _dead!"  
**  
**"Do you not understand that while we bicker amongst ourselves, Sauron's power grows?" cries a voice from behind, and Gandalf appears beside me, chastising Boromir. "None can escape it! You will all be destroyed!"

"Exactly why we should waste no more time with foolish ideas!" cries Boromir, gesturing to Gandalf with his hand. "Give the Ring to _Gondor, _for hope's sake! There it will be safe!"

"Don't you understand how consuming the Ring is?" I cry. "All it's going to do is bring terror and destruction to your city!"

"And what would a _child, _no less a _girl, _know of such plight?" he snarls contemptuously. "Know your place before you speak!"

"Oh shut _up_, you chauvinistic _piglet!" _

But before he can return what I'm sure would be an exceptionally scathing reply, a high voice carries over the din.

"I will take it!"

A hush falls over the Council.

From beside me, Gandalf closes his eyes in resignation and I turn slowly to face Frodo in awe, who is standing up with both apprehension and determination in his face.

"I will take the Ring to Mordor!" he says loudly, faltering a bit as the Council looks on at him, astonished. "Though…I do not know the way"

Gandalf walks towards the Halfling and places his hands on Frodo's shoulders in reassurance. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear."

There is a moment of consideration, before Aragorn rises from his seat. "If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will."

He kneels before Frodo, who looks both surprised and relieved. "You have my sword."

Another moment of deliberation, then Legolas steps forward. "And you have my bow."

"And my axe!" says Gimli proudly, stepping forward to take his place tensely beside the Elf.

Silence again. Then I step forward, heart pounding, and all eyes turn to me. I'd been planning what to say – now was the time to say it. "The fate of this Ring will shape all of Middle-earth, Frodo. I can make no other oath than to be a loyal comrade in this quest."

There are whispers all around as I step forward to stand beside Frodo, and they only stop when Elrond raises a pale hand. He turns subtly to look at me, the statement reflected objectively in his eyes. _If this is indeed your choice._

I blink with a minute nod in assurance.

The gesture does not go unmissed by Boromir, who eyes me warily as he steps forward. "You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done.  
**  
**"Hah!"

The Council turns as one body as Sam suddenly jumps up from behind a cluster of bushes, racing round till he slips under Gandalf's arm to stand by Frodo's other side. "Mr. Frodo's not going anywhere without me!"

"No indeed!" says Lord Elrond with a small smile. "It's hardly possible to separate you even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

"Wait! We're coming too!"

Everyone turns to the entrance of the Council room as Merry and Pippin come racing in to stand beside Frodo and I.  
**  
**"You'd have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us!" states Merry proudly, sticking his nose into the air.

Pippin smiles as he pipes up, "Anyway you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission. Quest. Thing."

"Well that rules you out Pip," quips Merry quietly.

"Ten companions..." muses Elrond. He shakes his head then claps his hands together with satisfaction, the gleam of hope bright in his eyes. "So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!"

"Great!" grins Pippin. "Where are we going?"

* * *

**PHWOAR that was long! I'm quite proud of it actually. I might rewrite the latter part of the Council later but right now I'm absolutely ****_dead! _****FYI next chapter involves a lot of talk about sword fighting and combat, and just fair warning there's a brief mention of an unfortunate monthly problem for girls, that seems to go relatively ignored in Tenth Walker fics.**

**Thanks for reading. Please review!**

**-Fernstrike**


	5. Parties and Parries

**Hi all!**

**Not really happy with how this turned out, but I thought I seriously had to update. Fair warning that this chapter really revolves around a swordplay training session between Sarah and Aragorn. I will be using a lot of terms referencing swords, swordplay and fencing, and so have included a glossary at the end of the chapter for your benefit. I'm sorry if it ends up being confusing, but combat seems to be the one thing that's always glossed over in Tenth Walker fics. I'm really passionate about sword combat of all time periods, and I'd like to try and clear up the complexity and skill of fighting and battle and how difficult it is to achieve proficiency with the sword, especially in a style unfamiliar to our modern era! You can go ahead and skip on to the second half if you like (I'm certain this won't be everyone's piece of cake) but I felt I had to include it.**

**In any case, on with the show!**

One month.

One whole bloody month in Middle-earth and I still can't believe it.

The day is November 25th, and the world is winding down good and proper now for winter. Already the trees are half bare and the temperatures drop lower each night. For about a week now I've been tracking a family of squirrels from my bedroom window; this morning the mother squirrel brought in God-knows-how-many acorns over the course of about an hour. There's probably a whole hive of them in their little tree-home by now. I can imagine them sleeping all fuzzy and cosy and warm in amongst their store.

It's a nice sort of winding down, though, if you ignore the ominous snow-cloud that somehow always seems to drift from the East. It's quiet and subtle, and the wind is getting closer to the point where it feels like you're constantly being slapped in the face and pinched all over. Our clothes are changing, too – the dressing here is seasonal, and now my dresses are slowly fading to mint, and baby blue, and a less vibrant brown. Nedriel assures me come Christmastime (or, as they refer to it, the Winter Solstice, and as the Hobbits refer to it, Yule), there will be a burst of holly reds and deep greens and golds and all manner of festive colour. I've entered Middle-earth in the midst of a massive shift of spirit and season, and it is absolutely wonderful and refreshing.

But that is not least the best part of the past month here.

The best part has got to be that wonderful day about a week ago, when I let slip over breakfast that it was my birthday today and if you please Aragorn, I don't feel like training this morning because I'd rather treat myself. Of course Merry and Pippin, wanting any excuse to celebrate, jumped on it immediately and set about putting together a small party – just for the ten of us – as part birthday party, part icebreaker. Aragorn was a bit miffed that I hadn't told them earlier, as that would have given them time to find gifts, and of course I had no valid response to that so I just kept mum and gave a nervous laugh.

The party was to be held in one of Rivendell's numerous glades; a quaint gathering with absolute mountains of pastries and sweets and, of course, barrel upon barrel of rich mulled wine (understandable – being Elves, they would not take to something as crude as ale). My biggest dilemma before going – the sort that faces any respectable pubescent female – is what I was going to wear. Do I don my usual flowy dresses and invite polite compliments on my elegance and femininity…or do I just straight into it and become one of the boys? After debating it in my head for a good deal longer than is necessary, I settled for a flatteringly fitted tunic and vest, simple leggings and leather slippers. Nedriel's necklace, too, just to make myself feel good about it being my birthday. I also grabbed nine sweet fruit cakes from the pantry, remembering the Hobbit tradition of giving gifts on your birthday – I would have taken four, one for each of them, but I guess everybody else would probably feel a bit left out if they didn't get any either.

The glade was situated very publicly; not isolated or inconvenient to get to. _Good. It will help relax everyone if they don't feel cut off from the world. _

Upon arriving I was greeted by Merry and Pippin setting off a tiny cracker – God knows where they got that; probably nicked it from Gandalf – and shouting "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" at the top of their lungs. Aragorn had his signature Aragorn grin on, Gandalf was giving Pippin one upside the head and saying, "Fool of a Took!" because the cracker had exploded in his face, and everyone else was smiling politely. The usual pleasantries were exchanged, Happy Birthdays were passed along, and then we grabbed our food from the table and sat down in a great clump on the cool grass and eat and chatter. It was surprisingly easy, talking to them, initiating myself into the group. Some of these people had worked together before, you could tell; most especially Aragorn, Legolas and Gandalf. But that was good; it meant I wasn't the only newbie chucking herself into the fray. Granted, I was the only time-and-space travelling newbie, and granted, I thought rather like someone born in the 21st Century of _our _Earth, but hey – Gimli was born underground and Legolas was born in some tree, so differences abound everywhere. It frees up conversation, makes for interesting debate. I guess it's starting not to matter.

Anyway, it turns out the Fellowship – rather, the rest of the Fellowship – managed to pull together a present after all. When the food had begun to dwindle and conversation was lagging, Merry and Pippin, the devilish duo, turned around and whipped out something – unwrapped, but…I mean, I was gobsmacked. It was a little bracelet, simple thing, made of a few expertly woven strands of crude leather, with tiny, wilting flowers pushed into it and a little cleft of some coloured quartz at the crown, with and 'S' rune roughly scratched into the centre. So simple and obviously quickly put together, but beautiful nonetheless. Turns out the weaving was courtesy of Legolas, who'd probably weaved enough baskets and things in his life to be able to whip up a teensy bracelet in a few seconds; the flowers were lucky lavenders gathered by Aragorn; the quartz was a random bit of non-precious stone in Gimli's pocket; and the rune was courtesy of Boromir – surprisingly suiting, a rough rune carved into stone. The Hobbits, even after going to the trouble of organising a party and everything, had chipped in to make some sort of cake or tart that's pretty popular in the Shire – delicious!

I was just astonished. To think I'd just met these people, and yet they were…I mean, this went beyond simple hospitality. This was _awesome_. "When are your birthdays?" I'd asked them. "I've got to think of something to top this!" That brought a few good-natured laughs, and with that I knew the ice was broken, _Titanic-_style.

Gandalf had already given me his gift. He'd backed me when I tried to get in to the Fellowship. I knew he knew I knew, if that makes sense; I could see it in his good natured eyes. That reassured me all the same.

All the training I've done for the last month or so generally consisted of buffing up and exercising, building up my stamina and agility, learning about surviving in the wilds so I wouldn't be caught off guard – and brushing up on my knowledge of the enemy. At one point Legolas had tried to teach me how to use a bow; I quickly realised I have zero talent in that area. Instead, I confided to Aragorn – who I've really taken to, honestly, he's awesome – that I'm actually more suited to close quarter combat, to using swords and the like. He said over time I would have to develop versatility but for now, sure, why not, let's teach me how to sword fight.

So I find myself heading down to the armoury with him just after dawn, having eaten a small breakfast, just enough to keep me going, and dressed in a light cotton tunic and leggings. I have all these preconceptions about bladework; I'd fenced before, back on my own world, but fencing is nothing like this, I'm pretty sure. Maybe I have some sort of experience of the spontaneity of using a blade, of reacting with practiced instinct, but obviously not the same sort as Aragorn would have; there is a stark difference between fighting as a sport and fighting because if you don't, you'll fall. You can't take as many risks, that's for sure.

We head into the armoury; there is a single high window on the wall, letting the dawn light in to glint on the sharp edges of swords and spears and arrows that lean nonchalantly against the wood-panelled walls.

"How much fighting experience do you have?" Aragorn asks, grabbing a short sword from the wall on our right; many short swords and broad swords are hung on frames, wrapped in leather, polished, sharp and ready to use.

"I fenced for two years," I say as he leads me out. "I was only competitive for one, though."

He gives me a funny look. "Fenced?"

"Um, well fencing is a sport in my realm," I say carefully, trying to figure out how to describe what will undoubtedly be the queerest form of swordplay he's heard of. "We use these swords called foils, which are kind of like rapiers, but the blades are really thin and long and square-shaped, and they're blunt. Nothing like broadswords. You only fight using one arm and you can't use the other at all."

Was that enough of a summary? Fencing is much too intricate a sport to explain in just a few minutes. And I'm 98.5% sure Aragorn has no idea what a rapier is.

"Your realm is strange," is all he says, turning back to the forest, where we soon find a clearing with space enough to practice combat.

I snort. "Thanks."

He takes a position in the centre of the ring, holding his own broadsword in front of him. "If you are used to fighting with only one hand, I will soon teach you to use two interchangeably. But for now you may wield your short sword with only one hand. Come, let me see your stance!"

I comply, instinctually dropping into my fencing crouch, flicking my left arm up behind me and lining my feet up to an imaginary_ piste,_ before remembering I'm using a short sword and not a rapier. My cheeks heat up as I lower my arm to rest on my hip, but Aragorn doesn't say anything; so I stay still as he observes the way I've placed my feet and bent my knees and held my sword out in front of me.

Then he laughs.

I stand up straight, blushing furiously. "_What?_"

"Your stance is good," he says, still struggling to contain a grin. "But you have no idea how to hold a sword."

I try not to smile, which is difficult, and to swallow my pride, which is bubbling to the surface. "I never fenced with a French grip, that's all."

"French?"

"Uh, never mind."

So the first thing Aragorn teaches me to do that day is actually hold the sword. It takes me a while, because I'm so used to fitting my fingers around the funky-looking pistol grip instead of gripping on to a plain handle. The handle of a short sword is larger than a French grip rapier though, and feels strange in my hand. The curious crossguard is also unfamiliar, making me confused about how to move the sword, but Aragorn tells me to worry about that later.

"Get comfortable handling the sword first," he tells me. "If you can't feel its weight and size and shape nicely in your hand you won't be able to wield it."

"That will take some time though, won't it?"

"Naturally," he says. "So let us do some footwork while you hold the sword."

If there's one thing I learn that whole session, it's that footwork with a short sword is much different from footwork with a rapier. The blade is shorter for one thing, and in battle you don't have the benefit of a _piste_ to keep your duel with your enemy contained. Aragorn reminds me frequently of this as we move round and round the sparring circle. In battle you are in a 3D environment, not a 2D. There's this funny thing called 'behind' – you know, when people actually sneak up _behind _you to try and kill you – because in battle there is no room for chivalry.

On top of that, I can't keep my feet in the standard L-shaped fencing stance the whole time, because in battle I need to be able to move around on my feet, both crouching and standing up straight. It's really frustrating to try and completely rewrite the way I've learned to wield a sword, because a different sword and different environment requires an entirely different fighting style.

"Try not to fall in to old habits," he reminds me as he advances again.

Aragorn teaches me a lot about balance and distributing weight over my feet as we move around the circle; how to find a 'centre' so that no matter how I move I will always be balanced and sure-footed enough to carry out any required move.

He holds his sword out in front of him but doesn't move it, and instructs me to do the same. He tracks me around the circle, advancing and getting me to retreat, retreating and getting me to advance, moving quickly and slowly, erratically or controlled, standing up straight and crouching low – a strangely familiar exercise. Everything is a test for how much I can maintain stability in all positions of attack, defence and general movement with the blade.

At the end of forty minutes I'm out of breath and sweating and my arm hurts from the weight of the sword and my thighs are burning from crouching, but Aragorn is grinning widely as he wipes his forehead on his sleeve.

"You have much potential, young one," he says, sheathing his sword. "Take some water and rest for a while, then I will start teaching you to use the blade."

"Yay," I say with a blatant lack of enthusiasm as I trudge over to the water skins we've left under the tree. The crystalline liquid is cool in my throat and takes away the uncomfortable throbbing of blood in my ears, the residual effect of pent up adrenaline being spent.

Aragorn sits down beside me, taking a few gulps from his own water skin. "Make sure you tell me if I'm pushing you too far," he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Nah, it's fine," I say. "It's just getting used to this new fighting style. I mean, fencing is a duel. You have time to size up your opponent and beat them down 'til you win."

"But that is not the case in battle," Aragorn nods.

"Not by a long shot," I say with a short laugh and he smiles a bit.

We're silent for a while, but it is a comfortable silence, and before long I shut my eyes and relish the sounds of the morning. All too soon Aragorn gently touches my shoulder and my eyes snap open.

"Let's start then. If you're awake," he jokes.

"Of course!" I blush, pushing myself to my weary, aching feet.

With the late morning sunlight slanting through the trees, Aragorn teaches me how to grip the handle of the sword with one hand, and how to move it so that I can make use of the dual sided blade. Needless to say, my sword-wielding confidence descends to zero. Moving double edged blades is so _difficult!_

"I'd like to test how you are able to withstand contact with another blade," he says, standing up straight as we take a breather. "So now we will let our blades touch. React as your instinct governs you and I will correct you as we go.

It's kind of intimidating, considering his longsword makes my blade look like a little bitty dagger in comparison.

We do a simple and surprisingly familiar exercise – step forward, attack, step back, parry. I keep attempting to tap his blade in a beat before I attack, which Aragorn says is great if I'm deflecting a blow or trying to move the sword aside, but it would have to be _much _stronger. There's no need for the little fencing 'tap' because there's no such thing as right of way. And then there's the whole _these-are-Medieval-swords-so-'slash'-don't-'thrust ' _deal. I'm so used to stabbing but Aragorn has to keep reminding me to slash, which is such an unfamiliar arm movement that my bicep strains to keep up with the effort.

Before long we are increasing the speed, and then two hits in an attack, parrying two blows and riposting. There are no flourishes, nothing fancy, but he does teach me the basics of fending off an attacker from behind. Needless to say, by the time noon rolls around, I am ready to collapse.

It feels good though, like slipping into a skin I never knew I could wear. It's the sort of pleasure-from-pain experience where through the toil you come out with something better than you started with.

I run my fingers absently along the delicate swoop of my sword's crossguard as we pick up our waterskins. Swordplay…it's so elegant and graceful. There is so much tactical and physical skill involved; you alone can control the weapon, you alone are the master of your battle. You are in an ensemble, yet you are a soloist. You are in the army, yet you are an individual.

_**Fencing Glossary (because I used a lot of confusing terms this chapter. Please note that with fencing we say 'blade' not 'sword'. Also, I don't pretend to be an expert. Feel free to correct me.)  
Rapier –**__ A thin, light sword used for duelling. Originated in the 1700's. The base design for fencing blades. Fought using thrusts more than slashes (note: Sabre, one of the three types of blades used in modern fencing, still utilises slashing as the main mode of attack, as it is based on horseback duelling).  
__**Foil –**__ one of the three types of blade used in fencing (the others being Epee and Sabre). Has a small circular guard and a four sided blade. The valid target area is only the chest/stomach area. Fought using stabs only. Usually the first type of blade fencers learn to use (unless you are taking, for example, a 6 week crash course, in which you'd learn epee as it has simpler rules).  
__**Piste –**__ the narrow strip on the floor that is the fencer's duelling area – the 'court', if you will.  
__**French grip –**__ a plain grip that sticks out straight from the guard.  
__**Pistol grip –**__ a grip with numerous bits poking out of it that fit around the fingers (You can Google it so see what it looks like – it's weird! Weird, but convenient!).  
__**Parry –**__ sometimes called a block. Using your blade to block an opposing blade.  
__**Riposte –**__ sometimes called a counterattack. Used as response to a parried blow.  
__**Beat –**__ used in Foil fencing to gain the right of way in a duel ('right of way' allows a hit to be valid - without it, you just get a foul). It is a light tap to the blade before an attack.  
__**Short sword – **__The generic Medieval sword, usually wielded with one hand.__**  
Broadsword –**__ a heavier, double-edged sword. Usually wielded with one hand. Used for smashing through enemies, especially with chainmail. You may have noticed most of the Rohirric riders use this in the movies.  
__**Longsword –**__ a lighter, longer sword. Usually wielded with two hands. Used for slashing at enemies to cut them down. Narsil/Anduril is considered a longsword.  
__**Crossguard –**__ A bar of metal that sits perpendicular with the blade and handle. Most swords in LOTR use a crossguard. Some swords that do not use a crossguard are rapiers, cutlasses, katanas and modern fencing blades.  
__**Double-edged –**__ when there is a cutting edge on both sides of the blade_

**It's true that many people who write about Tenth Walkers being trained to fight have no idea how footwork goes hand-in-hand with wielding the blade, so I thought I better correct that with my prior knowledge of fencing (all of the things I mentioned in the story regarding my fencing experience are true, by the way). Needless to say, Sarah has far to go when it comes to fighting with a double-edged sword! ;) **

**Anyway, apologies for the unnecessarily lengthy A/N's! They WILL be shorter in future – I swear! And the next chapter will be much, much better, and up a LOT sooner, I promise. No more six month waits! I feel horrible – I'll get it done!**

**Cheers, all!**

**-Fernstrike**


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